Book Seven: Descending to Darkness
by Soledad
Summary: Part 7 of my Boromir series. WIP. Ch 4 - The Watcher in the Water makes its appearance, and we learn something about the Avari, too.
1. Chapter 1: Looking for the Path

**DESCENDING TO DARKNESS**

**by Soledad**

**INTRODUCTION**

(Which you can skip if you know the earlier stories.)

**About this story:**

Kind readers, 'tis finally it! My long-wind Boromir story arc "Fall Before Temptation" is coming out of the deep hole where it has been sitting in the last half a year or so.

This is Book Seven of the tale, and though it can stand alone perfectly well (I am handling pure LOTR-stuff here, after all), reading the earlier "books" might be helpful, since they all belong together.

**Before you start reading, a few warnings:**

This is a **bookverse** story, and aside of a few slight artistic freedoms, I am following book canon rather meticulously. Also, I assume that my readers _have_ read the books – LOTR the very least – and thus possess certain background knowledge.

I used some of the earlier writings of Tolkien, as published by his son, Christopher Tolkien, in the books "The Return of the Shadow" (HoME 6) and "The Treason of Isengard" (HoME 7). Some lines are directly quoted, though not marked individually. This does _not_ make my story an AU, as the added lines are few and the differences minor.

Whatever else seems different from LOTR is due to the fact that I tell the story of the Fellowship from Boromir's POV. He might have seen events from a different angle than the hobbits did.

If you a movie-fan, though, this tale will probably disappoint you. I have been re-reading the books again and again for 20 years, and I do _not_ like the movie _at all_. Therefore, my own inner images of the main characters differ greatly from the actors who played them (with the possible exceptions of Gandalf and Sam.) No offence intended, but the movie characters just do not look right to me.

Not that I reject everything the movie gave us – I absolutely _love_ how Boromir, my lead hero was portrayed (as you might have noticed by now), and I readily adapted good movie scenes to my stories. Nevertheless, my Boromir, just like the character in the books, has dark hair.

So, if you are a devoted movie-fan, these stories probably aren't the right ones for you.

This much had to be told in advance, for many people automatically identify the characters with the actors. That would not work with my stories.

**About Gimli **

Gimli is an issue of his own. There had been a rumour before John Rhys-Davies got the part, that Jeffrey Combs (an excellent character actor, known from horror movies and diverse Star Trek-series) would be cast as Gimli. I was excited and couldn't wait for an affirmation – which, of course, never came.

Now, while I have nothing against John Rhys-Davies (I saw him in other roles and he was really good,) quite frankly, I don't care either for his appearance or for his performance in the movie. For me, it was very disturbing to know what a huge man he actually is. I was never persuaded, that he would be a Dwarf. Not for a second.

So, for me, personally, Jeffrey Combs would have made a much more believable Gimli. Therefore please consider that I write my stories with Jeffrey Combs before my eyes, so that the Gimli in _my_ series would be very different from the Gimli in the movie.

I wanted to state this right here, before I start with the adventures of our heroes in Moria. Please accept this as my personal take on the good Dwarf and don't bother me with screams like ''But John Rhys-Davies is soooo Gimli!'', because, truth to be told, I won't care. Just as I don't care when people scream at me because for me Legolas never was and never will be a blond. I made my concept about those very dear characters some twenty-odd years ago, and I won't change it just because someone has made a popular movie.

**SOME BACKGROUND FACTS **

(For those who haven't read the earlier parts.)

In this particular series Boromir arrived in Imladris a couple of weeks before the Council (but this is the only AU-element in it). The whole series was originally based on a premise from Dwimordene's story "From the Other River Bank," in which Boromir was secretly in love with his own brother – a completely unrequited feeling. In that story, Denethor somehow discovered his guilty secret and this was the reason why Boromir was sent to find Imladris. His father also arranged to solve the whole dilemma by marrying him to Éowyn of Rohan.

In the beginning of this series, Boromir, on his way to Imladris, stops in Edoras for a day's rest. Here he learns of the fading of Théoden-King, the disturbingly increasing influence of Wormtongue, as well as of Gríma's stalking of Éowyn. Éowyn, however, does not want Prince Théodred to confront Gríma for her sake, for the weakening influence of the Crown Prince on his father is needed, she says, for more important things. To Boromir's surprise, Éowyn declares herself willing to enter an arranged marriage with him, for the good of both their countries. She also hopes that Boromir will allow her to fight on his side as an equal, as Prince Théodred allows his own wife, Aud of the deep eyes.

On his way to Imladris, Boromir has a bloody skirmish with a horde of Orcs and loses his horse near Tharbad. Injured and unconscious, he is found by the Rangers of the North and brought into their refuge among the ruins of that once great city, to the house of their leader –who later turns out to be Halbarad.

Halbarad points him in the right direction to Imladris, but he gets lost in the woods and is at last picked up by a small group of Wood-Elves, led by Legolas. In Imladris, Boromir meets Elladan, Elrond's son. Soon they are involved in an affair, and Elladan falls deeply in love with Boromir, finally entering a one-sided soul-bond. Elladan feels the bond will help him protect Boromir from the Shadow that fell upon his heart during the battle for Osgiliath – and from the lure of the Ring. The binding ceremony is witnessed by Glorfindel and performed through gifting the Shielding Stone – a white jewel set in a silver collar and brought back from Valinor in the First Age – upon Boromir by Elladan. Because of the craft of this Stone and their soul-bond, Elladan and Boromir are now able to farspeak (i.e.: communicate with each other telepathically).

This touching of minds (or souls) develops slowly while the Fellowship goes south with the Ring. It culminates, the morrow after they successfully fight the Wargs, in a full merging of their souls, called "The Joining" by Elves.

Here ends "Book Six: Of Snow and Stone and Wolves," shortly before they set off for Moria.

And now the continuation…

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: LOOKING FOR THE PATH **

**Dedication:** for Archet, my good friend and fellow Boromir groupie. Happy birthday, Archet!

**Acknowledgement:** my heartfelt thanks to Snicklepop who offered to beta-read the story and to clean out my grammar mistakes that are unnumbered. All remaining mistakes are mine alone.

**Author's notes:**

Here I added a day to their journey, following HoME 6 rather than FOTR, in order to make room for some personal interaction. The description of the Fellowship's path mostly follows FOTR, with a few additions from HoME. There are a few direct quotes, but they are interwoven with my own lines as usual.

Legolas' age is _not_ given by Tolkien _anywhere_. All speculations about his age are just that: speculations. I made him somewhat older than he usually appears in fanon, but still fairly young for an Elf. Also, there is no canon fact saying that he had been in Moria before. I made up that short incident.

The changeable hair colour of Wood-Elves™ is my invention, too. They have it in all my stories. My Legolas has it from his mother, whom I imagined as a Silvan woman.

* * *

All the day they had heard no sound and seen no sign of any living thing. As soon as the light began to fade they started off again, for Gandalf wanted to reach the doors of Moria before the next sunset. A light ran was still falling, but that did not trouble them much – at first. Nevertheless, Boromir was grateful for the long leather coat his status demanded him wear – only the short sleeves of his tunic got soaked instead of all his garments. He had folded his cloak and put it away in his leather bag when the rain started. Now he would have something dry to wrap himself – or mayhap the soaking wet young hobbits – into as soon as they found a place to rest.

Legolas walked at his side. The rain seemed not to bother the Elf at all, though his long, dark hair, bound in one, tight braid, lay like a piece of wet cord upon his back. It looked almost black now, and the part of his clothes that was _not_ made of leather was soaked already.

"What a day!" Legolas commented softly. "As if the heavens themselves would mourn over the folly that directs our steps from peril to certain doom."

"Certain doom would be daring Caradhras again," Boromir replied. "I wonder how anyone can cross the Redhorn Pass at all."

"I have never tried it myself," the Elf shrugged. "Whenever we have to come to Imladris from our home, we cross the Hithaeglir further up in the North, through the High-Pass, which is well-protected by the hard-handed Bardlings. But I have heard that the Lady Arwen often takes the Redhorn Pass on her way to visit her kindred in Lothlórien, and she never ran into serious trouble."

"The Mountains are less malevolent during other seasons," said Aragorn, obviously having overheard their conversation, and moved closer to them. "And I am certain that the snowstorm was sent to us with the very purpose of making the way impassable. Sauron has many ways to set hindrances before us."

"And yet you led us into snow and near-death," Boromir commented, suppressing his involuntary shiver. Why the Ranger felt the need to name the Enemy at every chance, he still failed to understand. Names held power in them, and the naming of evil could summon evil. Aragorn gave him a sour look.

"So I did," he agreed, somewhat reluctantly. "For I underestimated his strength and hoped that we might slip through in the last moment, as snowstorms are uncommon in the Mountains this early in winter. Apparently, I was wrong."

This earned Boromir's grudging respect. Admitting a mistake, and a grave one at that, was not an easy thing to do for a leader of Men, yet it was necessary. Seeing that Aragorn was able to do so, gave him some hope. Mayhap the Ranger would prove to be an able ruler, after all. Assuming, however, that the Council of Gondor would accept his claim – which was by no means certain.

Boromir knew that his father would _not_ support someone from the northern line. The Lord Denethor was very much like his ancestor, Pelendur, who had successfully kept the last King of Arnor from claiming the throne of Gondor. Boromir sighed inwardly – this meant that his own thoughts on this matter would be important in the upcoming discussion. It helped but little that he still was of two minds about the whole thing. Anyway, the Ranger would have to prove his worthiness thoroughly and repeatedly if he wanted Boromir's support.

They fell into silence again. Aragorn lengthened his already long strides to catch up with Frodo and Sam, in case they needed help with the stumbling pony, while Boromir kept an eye on the younger hobbits. Legolas fell back to keep watching their backs – he felt uncommonly tense, and sought some comfort in being alone.

Gimli now walked ahead by the wizard's side, so eager was he to come to Moria, and the longer his strong, short legs stomped upon the rock beneath his feet, the more eager, the more full of new strength he seemed. It was as if the strength of his forefathers, none less than Durin the Deathless among them, had filled his heart and his limbs through the very bone of the Earth. Though he was young for a Dwarf (his round face and his slightly upturned nose making him look even younger), there was an ancient look about him now, that he had become one with the rock under is feet, the fire of Dwarven generations long past shining in his round, deeply dark eyes.

Along with Gandalf he led the Company back towards the Mountains, for they planned to come towards Moria up the course of the Sirannon – a stream that ran out from the foot of the hills not far from where the hidden Doors had stood.

But it seemed that they must have gone astray in the dark, for it was a black night under an overcast sky – so dark indeed, that even Legolas had difficulty seeing. In any case, they did not strike the stream, and after half a night of wandering and floundering, the hobbits grow weary and began to stumble and slip on the wet stones.

After a while Legolas caught up to the wizard.

"There is no use looking for a lost path in the night, Mithrandir," he said quietly. "Nor can the hobbits go on much longer. Let us find a resting place and wait for the dawn to break; by first light we shall see whether we have truly lost our bearings or else the land has changed in recent years."

Boromir expected an outburst of protest from the wizard, for well did they all know that Gandalf was fretted by their delay. But to his surprise the old man agreed, sounding tired and dispirited for the first time since they set off from Imladris.

"We all can use a few hours' rest," Gandalf sighed. "And if rest we must, it is better to do it while going on is nigh impossible anyway. Mayhap we shall have more luck in the morn. Your eyes can see in almost complete darkness, Legolas. Can you find us a somewhat protected place for the rest of the night?"

"We passed some sort of cave only moments ago," the Elf replied, clearly undisturbed by the rain streaming down his face. "More a shallow hole in the rock, in truth, but it might serve as cramped quarters."

"Sounds good enough… as long as it has a roof, at the very least," said Pippin through chattering teeth. He looked like a dog that had fallen into the river: wet, shaggy and miserable. Legolas gave him a compassionate look.

"It has," he said. "Let us turn back."

And back they turned, after all their struggle, if only for a short way, led by the keen-eyed Elf. And indeed, after some half-blind stumbling they reached the cave. 'Twas not too large as caves go, barely big enough for them all, but at least it was dry inside, even though it became damp soon enough from their wet clothes, the smell of which was strong enough for a pack of soaked wolves. Legolas turned up his nose but said nothing, his discomfort showing only through the fact that he sat as close to the cave entrance as possible.

They dared not light a fire, nor could they do so even if they dared, for there were no trees near. The few pieces of deadwood they might have found would have been dripping wet as well. Boromir helped the younger hobbits wring out their clothes (his big hands making easier work of it than their small ones), then he retrieved his almost-dry cloak from his bag and wrapped them up tightly, so that they could share their body heat. He spread some of the blankets for them upon the naked rock floor and urged them to rest as well as they could, for they would need their strength in the morrow.

"I would not have thought you such a caring person when we first met," Legolas commented softly when the Man took the last empty spot on his side, left free by the others because it was too close to the entrance. Boromir shrugged.

"I was taught to judge the strengths and weaknesses of my troop carefully. The young Halflings are our weakest point – they are a liability, need to be protected."

The Elf watched him with bright eyes and a slight smile.

"Is that all there is?" he asked. Boromir shrugged again.

"Every army is just as strong as its weakest soldier. But nay," he added with a helpless grin. "'Tis not all. I truly grew found of the little ones. I know they are not children – yet they remind me of the days of my youth where children in Minas Tirith were still numerous and their laughter could be heard in all seven rings of the city. It has become so silent lately… silent as a tomb. I wish that laughter to return to my people, and when I hear these young ones laughing and jesting, I almost feel that there still is some hope for us as well."

He paused, casting a thoughtful look at the kneeling Elf, unbraiding his wet hair and running a wooden comb through the dark locks in a detached manner. The long, silken tresses almost touched the ground, thrown forward over his shoulder. Was it only his imagination or had Legolas' hair truly changed its colour since their first meeting?

"What is it like in _your_ home, Legolas?" the Man asked. "I saw no Elf-children in Elrond's house, and when I asked for the reason, I was told that none have been born for many hundreds of years."

"That is true for Imladris," Legolas answered. "Yet Elrond's people and my kin are different, for we of the Silvan folk wish not to leave Middle-earth. Our roots are deep in this soil; also our lives are more perilous than those of Imladris, save Elladan and Elrohir who often seek out grave dangers willingly. Therefore, there still _are_ Elflings in the Greenwood, for we need the new generations to keep the safe numbers of our people, just like Men do. And we grow up more slowly than Man-children. As a rule, we also have large families, for our people die more frequently in battle than all other Elves of this Age. 'Tis not safe to live near Dol Guldur, where the Dark One once dwelt, and where now his _Úlairi_ keep watch."

"_Úlairi_?" Boromir repeated in askance. Legolas shrugged.

"The ones Men call Nazgûl or Ringwraiths. One of them, whom old lore names Khamûl the Easterling, has been the captain of Dol Guldur ever since Sauron began to stir again, some two thousand years ago."

Boromir winced. "Do you have to always speak _His_ name? 'Tis bad omen, you know."

"Forgive me," the Elf bowed his dark head. "I keep forgetting about your customs. Truth is, we share not your belief that invoking the name would invoke the evil – even less so since 'tis not his true name at all. 'The Abhorred' was he called by the Elves of the Elder Days, yet it is a name given out of dismay, not one of true power."

"You know _His_ true name, then?" asked Boromir, thoroughly surprised by what he just had been told. Legolas nodded.

"The dark name he was given after submitting to his Master I know, yea. 'Tis an old custom to teach it those chosen to rule our people, for it is believed that you only can destroy an enemy when you know his true name. But I doubt that there is anyone on Earth who would still remember the name by which he was called before his fall – unless Mithrandir does."

"Or Curunír," Boromir added grimly. Which earned him another nod.

"True. Yet now that Curunír has allied himself with Mordor, we cannot count on his help anymore. Mithrandir is our last, best hope to see this Quest completed."

"My father has little trust in Mithrandir," Boromir said. "And neither have I, to tell the truth. But my brother admired him greatly, and Faramir is no fool, even though the trickery of the wizard might blind him at times."

"You are sorely mislead if you think ill of Mithrandir," warned Legolas. "He is not unerring, 'tis true, and he is quick to anger also, yet never in the two thousand years since I first met him in Elrond's house have his goals been aught but noble."

"I think of him no better or no worse than he thinks of me," Boromir replied, unexpected bitterness welling up in his heart. "He thought the rumours that he always wished Faramir were the heir of our father – for he found my brother more apt to his hand – would not reach my ears? Well, they did. I know well what I am in his eyes: a mere hindrance in the way of his friend, the Ranger. Little does he care for the people of Minas Tirith who have kept the Darkness at bay through all those long and dread years; and, even less for my longfathers who served Anárion's city with blood, strength and love."

"I know but little of Mithrandir's deeds or wanderings, for he never visited our realm until almost eighty years ago," said Legolas thoughtfully. "Still, I seem to remember that he used to be on friendly terms with your grandfather, or so Aragorn says."

"And made Ecthelion turn against his own son in favour of a stranger," answered Boromir, in a near-hostile manner. "Nay, Legolas, your wizard friend is no friend of mine, or that of my family… or our people."

Legolas sighed and began to re-braid his hair, his long, nimble fingers glowing barely visibly in the darkness. His dealings with the Lakemen and the people of Dale had taught him better than to fight with mortal stubbornness. He was quiet 'til he finished his task – then he turned his bright eyes to Boromir again.

"Watch your heart carefully, Son of Gondor," he said. "For you are hoarding so much bitterness in it that I fear for you when we descend into the Black Pit."

"For me… or for yourself?" Boromir asked quietly. The Elf shrugged again – a movement that could be more felt than actually seen in the darkness.

"The thought makes me uncomfortable," Legolas admitted. "Yet I have already been there and come out just fine. You, however, should rest now, for it will be a long and perilous way through the Mines."

Boromir saw the wisdom in the Elf's advice and leaned back against the rock wall to rest as well as he could. It took not long 'til his bone-deep weariness overwhelmed him and he fell in dreamless sleep like a stone into a dark well.

* * *

When they woke in the next morrow, they were somewhat comforted by a change in the weather: the clouds had broken and the rain had stopped. The sun came out in gleams, and there were no birds in the sky or other ominous signs. After a short and frugal breakfast they still steered straight back towards the Mountains, but both Gandalf and Aragorn were much puzzled by their failure to find the stream where they looked to find it, only a few miles southwards from their start.

The morning was passing towards noon, and still they wandered and scrambled in a barren country of red stones, shivering in their damp clothes. Boromir was more comfortable in his dry tunic, but he felt the weight of his mail shirt and his big shield keenly. Not for the first time did he think of his lost horse with yearning. Narothal, a well-trained warhorse of Rohan, would carry his and his armour's weight with ease. He watched the tireless Dwarf with envy; the heavy armour seemed not to bother Gimli at all.

On the contrary, he was pressing on ahead, driven by the deep longing to see the glorious underground city of his forefathers – and mayhap to meet his long-lost cousin again. On and on he stomped, his short legs carrying him easily over the stony ground all the others found difficult at best. But again, it was said that Dwarves drained their strength from the stone as they walked upon it, and it certainly seemed true for the son of Glóin.

Suddenly he held back and called back to Gandalf who was following him at a short distance.

"Tharkûn!" he said, using the name the Dwarves had given the wizard when they stumbled over him for the first time. "Look at this!"

Gandalf hurried up to the knoll on which the Dwarf was standing. The others followed him, and looking down they saw below a narrow watercourse in a deep channel. It was empty and silent, and hardly a trickle of water flowed among the brown and red-stained stones of its bed; but on the near side there was a path, much broken and decayed, that wound its way among the broken walls and once white paving stones of an ancient road.

"Ah! Here it is at last!" said Gandalf. Boromir gave him an irritated look.

"_What_ is here?" he asked sourly. "I cannot see aught but a dried-out river bed and a ruined pathway."

"This is where the stream ran, at least when I was here the last time," the wizard answered. "Unless I am sorely mistaken, that is."

"You are not," said Aragorn. "It _was_ here. Sirannon, the Gate-stream, they used to call it; at least that is what Gildor Inglorion, who had visited Moria in his youth several times, told me."

"That is true," the wizard nodded. "But what happened to the water, I cannot guess; it used to be swift and noisy. Come! We must hurry on. We are late."

* * *

We all were footsore and tired, save mayhap the Elf and the eager Dwarf; but we trudged doggedly along the rough and winding track for many miles nonetheless. Anor turned from the noon and began to go west. We made a brief halt when the Halflings declared that they needed to eat ere going any further. But, after a hasty meal we went on again, much to the dismay of young Meriadoc. I had the feeling that it was not the weariness that made him so reluctant to keep going, but his deep fear of the horrors of the Black Pit. Legolas seemed to share his reluctance.

This did somewhat surprise me, for if I learnt aught on our journey, I surely learnt that our Elf was not easy to panic. Growing up among the Orcs and Giant Spiders of Mirkwood, under the shadow of Dol Guldur, fighting Wargs from the tender age of twelve, one is not frightened so easily. I wondered what dreadful things might dwell in the dark depths of the Dwarrowdelf, things that even the fearless Prince of Mirkwood shivered at the mere thought of.

I fell back when we set off again to ask him about it. After all, he had been in the mines before, and I would bite my tongue off ere I asked the Ranger.

"I cannot tell you what they are," he answered after a time so long that I had already given up on an answer. "Under the feet of the Mountains there dwell ancient creatures, strong and dark. They are older, much older than even Elves or Orcs. None of us can guess for how long they have lain hidden, gnawing on the roots of the world. Some of them had been there before the Awakening of the Elves, or so our oldest legends say. I saw them not, but I could feel them moving deep under even the deepest mines of the Dwarves… some of them slowly as roots move under the Earth, some of them quick as spreading fire."

"Do you believe that there still might be Dwarves in Moria?" I asked. He shrugged.

"That I cannot say, either. I entered the Black Pit long before the Dwarves returned to their ancient dwellings. But I do hope that at least some of them are still alive. I am no friend of Dwarves, but I did like Old Balin. He was a friendly fellow as Dwarves go, and I ran into him a few times in Dale."

Hearing this surprised me a little, for like most people, I thought that Elves and Dwarves had little love for each other, and the way Legolas and Gimli treated each other during our quest seemed to prove the veracity of my belief. Yet every time I thought I figured out the way the Prince of Mirkwood's mind worked, he surprised me once more.

"What were you doing in Moria?" I asked, for that question had bothered me ever since I heard of his visit in the Mines for the first time. "I thought Elves disliked closed spaces – especially Wood-Elves."

"We do," he agreed amiably. "But there are times when one must choose between discomfort and certain death. I led a hunting party in Southern Mirkwood and we ran into trouble. Fleeing through the eastern gate of Moria was our only chance to survive. But we did not go through the mines – we lurked near the Eastern Gate 'til help arrived and the Wargs were driven away."

"How long….?" I trailed off, but Legolas understood my meaning.

"Four days," he said. "Those were the longest four days in my whole life – and I have a long life already, at least as Men count time."

He said no more, and I knew better than press him for details. There are memories too dreadful to speak of, memories that one chooses to ban into the farthest corner of one's mind. I would have been reluctant to discuss my encounter with the cave trolls as well. So I let the topic rest, and we walked in silence for a while.

Before us the Mountains frowned, as if disapproving of our approach, but our path lay in a deep trough of land, and we could see only the higher shoulders and the far eastward peaks. Legolas narrowed his keen eyes, looking upwards, and there was something near awe on his face – something I would have rather expected from the Dwarf.

"They look so different from this side," he said softly. "So much more majestic. I never grow tired of seeing their naked beauty, no matter how often I get the chance. Most of the time Hithaeglir's peaks are obscured through a thin veil of mist, true to its name."

"How often have you already seen this side of the Mountains?" Suddenly I felt curious, and Legolas smiled.

"Many times. 'Twas nearly two thousand years ago when I first crossed the High Pass, sent by my father, to seek out the advice of the White Council." (1)

The casual remark took my breath away for a moment. I knew that Elves had long lives. Indeed, my own lover was nigh three thousand years old, but somehow Legolas seemed younger to me. The question slipped out of me without a second thought.

"Just how old are you?"

Legolas laughed at that, looking impossibly young once again.

"I was born in the Second Age," he answered in that infuriating Elven fashion that never reveals more than absolutely necessary. "I was a grown Elf during the Last Alliance, though still too young and inexperienced to fight alongside my sires. For an Elf, I still am fairly young," he added with a mischievous glint in those emerald eyes of his.

I shook my head. He was a true mystery for me – an angry, bitter, battle-hardened warrior in one moment, then a merry, mischievous imp in the next. I wondered if I would ever understand him… assuming I would have the opportunity.

In the meantime we came to a sharp bend. There the road, which had been veering southwards between the brink of the channel and a steep fall of the land to the left, turned and went due East again. Rounding the corner we saw before us a low cliff, some five fathoms high, with a broken and jagged top. Over it trickling water dripped, through a white cleft that clearly had been carved out by a fall that had once been strong and full.

For a moment even Gimli seemed full of doubt – and ready to voice his doubt, too.

"Are you certain that we are following the right path, Tharkûn?? For things seem to have changed muchly, compared with the tales of my forefathers."

"Indeed things have changed!" said Mithrandir. "But there is no mistaking the place. There is all that remains of the Stair Falls."

"The Stair Falls?" Gimli repeated in disbelief. Mithrandir nodded with a certainty that left no room for any doubts. The Dwarf sighed and shook his head reluctantly. Just like Legolas, he seemed not easily impressed, nor ready to believe something just because the wizard said so. Which surprised me, truly, for Mithrandir seemed to be as friendly with Dwarves as he was with the Halflings.

"In that case," Gimli said doubtfully. "There has to be a flight of steps out in the rock at their side, if I remember the tales I have been told as a Dwarf-child rightly."

"There was once," Mithrandir replied. "Though the main road wound away left and climbed with several loops up to the level ground at the top. There used to be a shallow valley beyond the Falls right up to the Walls of Moria, and the Sirannon flowed through it with the road beside it."

"And what, do you believe, would we find now that the stream is gone?" Legolas asked softly. Mithrandir shrugged.

"That I cannot say. But we can go and see what things are like now."

With that, on he pressed, the Dwarf on his side all the way long. The Halflings followed them a little hesitantly, and I could not suppress a grin, seeing my King-to-be struggling to help Samwise with the obviously very reluctant pony. Legolas grinned, too, though in a more affectionate way, and gave me a friendly push.

"On with you, Son of Gondor! If I must descend into the Black Pit again, I want to get over it as soon as I can."

About that we were in complete agreement, and so we followed the wizard's lead.

TBC

* * *

(1) Around 1050, Third Age, when the Greenwood began darkening again. Not a canon fact. 


	2. Chapter 2: Stone Gates Closed

**DESCENDING TO DARKNESS**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: see Introduction.**

**Rating:  PG, for this chapter**

**Author's notes: I divided the way of the Company to the Doors of Moria into two parts, instead of writing a monster chapter.**

There are some lines of description borrowed from "The Fellowship of the Ring" (the book, not the movie). As I am dealing with well-known facts here, I had two choices: use Tolkien's own lines or describe the same surroundings in a much poorer manner. I chose the first one.

My sincerest thanks go to Snicklepop for beta-reading.

CHAPTER TWO: STONE GATES CLOSED 

I have dreamt again.

One would think 'tis not possible to fall asleep on one's feet while stumbling along a steep and dangerous path, across unfamiliar territory, full of perils.

Well, it _is_ possible. You just have to be weary enough. And I was weary, weary beyond measure, wearier even than I had been when I arrived in Imladris, after having travelled a hundred and ten days from Minas Tirith. Weary enough to fell asleep on my feet. Weary enough to even dream, while still walking.

If you can call it a dream, of course.

In truth, it was more a nightmare than a dream. Still, it had to be something of a foresight, for I could not recognize what I saw.

I dreamt of fire and darkness again.

But this time, it was different from the earlier nightmares, different even from those sent me by the Ring. It was not the all-consuming Wheel of Fire that had haunted my dreams in Imladris.

It was worse. Much worse.

The fire filled every corner around me, soaring and hissing. And the Shadow that moved among the flames had no shape. It changed with every move, eluding my grasp, growing as huge as the very hills in one moment and blending seamlessly into the dark flames in the next.

Then it was gone, and I was lying in that strange, grey boat again, covered with cool water. It was filling my lungs, but that was not so bad, for I was no longer breathing. I was dead.

I was dead, looking down at my lifeless shell from some distance. I was looking beyond my burial boat, down Anduin, and I saw the black-sailed ships of the Corsairs leaving Umbar and sailing towards Pelargir. They were full of grim soldiers, ready to slaughter my people and burn my city.

I saw the armies of Harad marching towards Ithilien, their war-towers swaying slightly upon the board backs of the Mûmakil, whose mighty tusks were dripping blood; I saw the swarthy warriors with their gleaming scimitars, black bows and golden collars.

And I saw the countless armies of Orcs swarming over the ruins of Osgiliath once again, like armies of black ants. I saw the Black Gate of Minas Morgul opening and fresh troops pouring out of its maw in endless rows like black water. Lead by the huge, dark shape of the Dread Lord, the chief of the Enemy's warlords, they flowed onto the barren land.

All those vast armies had one common goal: to reach the White City of Ecthelion and paint her stones red with the blood of her people and black with ash. And I knew with absolute certainty that unless I do what I must do, my beautiful city would be burnt to the ground and her people slain 'til the last one.

Until recently, the curse of foresight was spared me. I wonder how Father and Faramir can bear these dreams. I know Father has had them all his life, and Faramir has had them since he reached adulthood.

One would think you got used to the dreams, given enough time. Mayhap some can. I would not be able to get used to them in a thousand lifetimes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Boromir stumbled and jerked awake as someone grabbed his arm with surprising strength. The green eyes of Legolas looked at him, worried.

"Boromir? Is everything all right?" the Elf asked, in a voice too low even for the Ranger to hear, and Boromir was thankful for it.

"Aye, everything is fine," he lied; there was no way he would share his disturbing dreams with the Elf. Legolas was reasonable enough for one of his kin, but he would not understand. No-one of the Company would. They only saw the Quest, while all _he_ saw was Minas Tirith. In flames.

"I am weary, that is all," he added. Legolas nodded in understanding, let him go and fell back to his accustomed place at the rear.

The day was drawing to its end, and cold stars were glinting in the high sky above the sunset, when Gimli and Gandalf, who were leading them, reached the side of the lake. The others followed with all the speed they could manage, climbing up the steep slopes.

Looking at it they saw that in breadth the lake was no more than two or three furlongs at the widest point. How far it stretched away southward not even Legolas could see in the failing light; but its northern end was no more than half a mile from where they stood, and between the stony ridges that enclosed the valley and the water's edge there was a rim of open ground.

"We must hurry forward," Gandalf warned the groaning hobbits. Boromir felt like groaning, too, but was somehow able to suppress that particular urge – he could not appear weak, not now, not in the eyes of his self-proclaimed King. "For we still have a mile or two to go before we can reach our destination on the far shore," the wizard added.

"And then you have still to find the doors," pointed out Merry, his tone leaving doubts that he believed the wizard would succeed. Gandalf gave him a stern look.

"Let that be my concern, Master Brandybuck," he said. "Yours should be to stay on your feet and go on, without falling into the lake."

Merry shot the dark water an uneasy look and shivered. He could not see much of it, but it made his skin crawl. He exchanged a glance of agreement with Pippin, who seemed a little white around his mouth, and as if following some inaudible order, they both inched closer to Boromir. The mere presence of the big Man gave them a feeling of safety. Boromir smiled at them, even though his smile was a forced one. He had learnt not to underestimate the little ones, despite their seeming weakness.

And so on they pressed, regardless of the weariness that all felt, save perhaps Gimli, and of course Legolas. When they finally came to the northernmost corner of the lake, they found a narrow creek that barred their way. It was green and stagnant, thrust out like a slimy arm towards the enclosing hill. Boromir shifted his weight uncomfortably. He was _not about to voice his childish fears, but he felt all too vividly reminded of those tall tales about huge sea serpents and other slimy monsters the mariners of his Uncle Imrahil loved to spin in the taverns of Dol Amroth's Gate Town. He never knew how many of the tales had a seed of truth in it, but he found that this pool definitely could spawn some more of these stories._

Gimli, however, strode forward undeterred, and found that the water was shallow, no more than ankle-deep at the edge. Behind them the hobbits walked in file, threading their way with care, for under the weedy pools were sliding and greasy stones, and footing was treacherous. Boromir stared down at the dark, unclean water with disgust and shuddered at the thought of its touch on the naked feet of the hobbits. He was _very glad to be a Man and to wear high boots._

As Sam, the last of the Hobbits, led the strangely reluctant pony up on to the dry ground on the far side, there came a soft sound: a swish, followed by a plop, as if a fish had disturbed the still surface of the water; though Boromir found it hard to imagine that any fish could live under all that murk. Turning quickly – as quickly as he dared, for he still stood ankle-deep in the water – he saw ripples, black-edged with shadow in the waning light. Great rings were widening outwards from a point far out in the lake. There was a bubbling noise, and then silence.

"What was that?" Boromir asked Legolas in a low voice. The Elf was only a few steps behind him, watching he others' backs as always, but now he stopped, too, eyeing the dark surface in suspicion.

But there was naught to say, not at that moment. The dusk deepened, and the last gleams of the sunset were veiled in cloud, so Legolas, having waited some more, finally shrugged.

"I cannot say what it might have been. Let us go on, for we must hurry."

Indeed, they were falling back already, for Gandalf now pressed on at a great pace, and the others followed as quickly as they could. 'Twas not too hard for the stout Dwarf and the long-legged Ranger, and surely an easy walk for the tireless Elf, but the Hobbits dragged on wearily, and even Boromir felt the hardness of the rocks in his very bones, for long it had been since he climbed the White Mountains for the last time, hunting for cave trolls with the Rohirrim and their Prince, Théodred. They both were young Men back then, barely come of age – now he felt the burden of more than twenty summers past keenly.

Finally, they reached the strip of dry land between the lake and the cliffs: it was narrow, often hardly a dozen yards across, and encumbered with fallen rock and stone; but they found a way, hugging the cliff, and keeping as far from the dark water as they might, for the mere sight of it still made them shiver. Looking back over his shoulder Boromir got a glimpse or two of Legolas, rubbing his light boots against the rock surface to get rid of the stinking remnants of that murk.

A mile or so southwards along the shore they came upon holly trees – a sight that made Legolas whimper softly, as if it pained him bodily. Stumps of dead boughs were rotting in the shallows;  the remains, it seemed, of old thickets, or of a hedge that had once lined the road across the now drowned valley. There was no doubt about the Elven origins of that way.

Even less so, for close under the cliff there stood, still strong and living, two tall trees, larger than any trees of holly that Boromir had ever seen or imagined. Their great roots spread from the wall to the water. Under the looming cliffs they had looked like mere bushes, when seen far off from the top of the Stair; but now they towered overhead, stiff, dark and silent – standing like sentinel pillars at the end of the road.

Legolas walked by them quietly and approached one of the trees with awe and the utmost respect, laying his palm upon the rough bark. His eyes closed, and for a moment he seemed to fall in a strange trance as he conversed with the tree without words. Then he stepped back, and as he opened his eyes again, he seemed rejuvenated and strengthened like they had not seen during the whole quest.

"These trees are older than even I am," he said softly, with a sense of wonder in his voice, "and strong, very strong and wise. Alas! 'tis not easy for me to understand their thoughts, for they have nearly forgotten how to talk to Elves any more. I tried to ask them what happened here, but their memories are so flooded with images that it is hard to find the right one among them. They must have stood here since the early years of the Second Age, I deem."

"And rightly so, my friend," Gandalf nodded. "Here the Elven-way from Hollin ended. Holly was the token of the people of that land – the people of Celebrimbor, the Jewel-Smith – and they planted these trees here to mark the end of their domain."

"_Their_ domain?" Boromir frowned. "Was then Moria and the lands around it not the possession of the Dwarves?"

"It was," said Gandalf. "But the West-door was made chiefly for the use of the Elves of Hollin in their dealings with the lords of Moria. Those were happier days, when there was still close friendship between different folks, even between Elves and Dwarves."

"It was not the fault of the Dwarves that the friendship waned," said Gimli, giving Legolas a dirty look. The Elf raised an elegant eyebrow.

"I have not heard that it was the fault of the Elves," he replied pointedly.

They glared at each other with open hostility, and for a moment Boromir almost feared that Legolas would lose control of his fiery temper again. The Elf could be as quick as a striking cobra in the deserts of Harad, and twice as deadly, if pushed beyond endurance. And despite Gimli's strength, Boromir doubted that the Dwarf would stand a chance against the enraged Elf.

Fortunately, Gandalf chose this very moment to step between the two, ending the glaring contest.

"I have heard both," the wizard said, in the manner of a long-suffering father. "and I shall not give judgement now."

"Oh?" the Elven eyebrow arched again, Legolas obviously not willing to give up just now. "You would not? Well, it was not _their High King who got slaughtered in his own chambers, I daresay."_

"But it _was_ our King-to-be who was thrown into the dungeons of a greedy woodland Elf for no reason," shot back the Dwarf easily. Gandalf rolled his eyes over the old – and rather pointless – argument, but he got no chance to settle it once again.

Legolas moved so quickly that not even Aragorn was able to see his deceptively slender arm lashing out. Ere he knew what had happened, Gimli was grabbed by his beard and hurled against the rock wall with a force that rattled his teeth, and a long, white knife glinted in the twilight, ready to deal the deadly strike between the Dwarf's chin and the high collar of his mail shirt.

Only Boromir was near enough to intervene, and he moved without a second thought, grabbing the Elf's waist and throwing himself backward, thus separating Legolas from his prey, using his own weight for momentum. He landed on his back with a loud thump and a groan, Legolas on top of him. The rock was every bit as hard and unforgiving as it had felt through the soles of his boots.

Aragorn overcame his shock soon enough to grab Legolas' wrist and wrestle the knife from his hand. Boromir doubted not that the Elf could take out the Ranger without even quickening his breath; but, to his surprise, Legolas let himself be disarmed without further resistance. He rolled off of Boromir, landing on his feet gracefully like a cat, his face pale and blank. Only his burning eyes and his heavy breathing showed the cold wrath raging inside him.

"I warned you not to besmirch the good name of my father again, you filthy dog," he said to Gimli in a low, dangerous voice. "Try it next time, and your friends will be not fast enough to save your miserable life."

Gimli answered something in Khuzdul – something that was no compliment either, from the sound of it. Legolas, his temper flare obviously over, only shrugged and turned away, not giving the Dwarven curses any significance at all – which probably angered Gimli more than any acerbic answer the Elf could have given. Boromir frowned.

"What was that all about?" he asked Aragorn, the one most likely to give him any answer at all. "Do they have some personal grudge?"

"More or less," the Ranger answered quietly. "Both Elves and Dwarves are very good at keeping grudges for unreasonably long times – and Legolas inherited the sometimes frightening temper of his father. King Thranduil is well known for his tantrums, even though they seldom happen without reason."

"I have heard that Wood-Elves can be unpredictable and dangerous," Boromir murmured, "but I expected not that Legolas would draw steel against one of the Fellowship. He could have killed the Dwarf on the spot."

"Had he truly wanted to do so, Gimli would be dead already," replied Aragorn. "He would not waste time with threatening… though I must admit that for a short moment I was frightened for Gimli's sake. 'Tis rare to see Legolas this angry. He usually keeps his temper under tight control."

"I hope so," said Gandalf, who was listening to them in concern, "or else we have no chance to bring this quest to success." He raised his voice, calling out to the two still silently fuming combatants. "Legolas! Gimli! I ask you not to declare never-ending friendship – I know both Elven and Dwarven stubbornness all too well, alas! – only to calm down and help me. I need you both!"

He gave them a gaze so intent that neither could hold it. Legolas nodded reluctantly and turned away, growling something softly in a peculiar Silvan dialect.

"What can I do?" asked Gimli, still eager to help the wizard, despite the distraction of a good quarrel with the Elf.

"The doors are shut and hidden," Gandalf answered, "and the sooner we find them, the better. Night is at hand!"

"True," agreed Aragorn grimly. "So, what do you wish the rest of us do while the two of you are searching?"

"You should each make ready to enter the Mines," replied the wizard. "You know what I mean by that, Aragorn, do you?"

"That we must say farewell to our good beast of burden, I deem," Aragorn sighed, giving Sam a pitying look. Then he turned to the others, saying: "All right, my friends, I fear that we must lay aside much of the stuff that we brought against bitter weather: we will not need it inside."

"Nor when we come through and journey on down into the South," Boromir added. "_If_ we come through at all, that is."

"If we want a chance of that, each of us must take a share of what the pony carried, especially the food and the water-skins," Aragorn replied, clearly not sure about the outcome of their attempt to visit the Mines – which made Boromir even more uneasy about the whole route. Whatever the Ranger might be, he certainly was no coward. And there also were Legolas' ill feelings about this path to consider.

As for the Halflings, they only sighed, accepting the inevitable, even though they were not happy about it. Sam, on the other hand, looked very distressed, his friendly, round face red with righteous anger.

"But you cannot leave poor Bill behind in this forsaken place, Mr. Gandalf!" he cried. "I will not have it, and that is flat. After he has come so far and all!"

Despite the graveness of their situation, Boromir could barely suppress a grin. The small, stout, red-faced Hobbit, glaring up into the wrinkled face of the wizard, was too funny to bear with a straight face.

"I am sorry, Sam," said the wizard, laying his hand on the curly head of the young Hobbit in a grandfatherly manner. "But when the Door opens I do not think you will be able to drag your Bill inside, into the long dark of Moria. You will have to choose between Bill and your master."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The rest of their discussion eluded me – that simple gesture of Mithrandir brought back memories I thought long forgotten. It reminded me of the day when the wizard came to Minas Tirith to say his farewells to my grandfather, who had fallen mysteriously ill a few years earlier. The healers knew not what ailed him, and it took me more than thrice ten years 'til I understood that he, too, had fallen under the Shadow that dwelt in Minas Morgul. Not a moment earlier than under the ruins of the broken bridge of Osgiliath did I recognize that grey weariness upon his face – 'twas the same dread that I saw on Faramir's face after we had swum to the safety of the other river bank, and I am certain that it was on my face, too.

But back then Faramir was but a little child, and I was very young myself. When I looked at Samwise, rising his angry yet still trusting eyes to Mithrandir, I could almost see the boy my brother had been. It occurred to me that during one of those long-winded lessons about Halfling family trees young Peregrin had mentioned once Samwise's age – it was the same age as my brother's. They very nearly were born on same day.

I looked at the little gardener and saw my brother as a five-year-old – for the tidings of Ecthelion's illness reached Mithrandir far too late, and when he finally came, my grandsire had been dead for four years already – looking up to the wizard with big, shining eyes, demanding tales about Elves and dragons and the unexpected luck of the sons of penniless widows. Suddenly, my heart felt heavy with foreboding. As if the foreshadows of a not-so-far, dread future had fallen upon it. And once again, I knew, with a terrible certainty that went beyond reason, that I will not see Faramir again.

Almost unknowingly, my fingers tasted after the Stone that I had not touched since we had fought back the Wargs. I was afraid of the intensity of the Joining – of my own treacherous heart. I was afraid, that – if I tasted that wonderful peace again – I might not bring up the strength to go on. That I might simply lie down and die in bliss.

But now I felt so drained that I could not deny myself the comfort of Elladan's touch upon my soul. Selfish it might have been, for I knew that it drained his strength every time, but I craved that special closeness I could have with no-one else, not even Faramir. What I shared with my Elf was unique, a bond created rarely between Firstborn and Men through all three Ages of Middle-earth. And I needed it before facing the darkness of the Mines.

Thus I slipped off my rough glove and closed my fingers around that peculiar white gem in almost-despair.

And there it was – his soft touch upon my soul, like the kiss of a spring rain upon the barren soul. Earlier on, he often farspoke to me through the Stone, but not this time. There was a gentle brush between our spirits, a brief, yet complete merging once again – then he was gone. But that was enough to fill me with much-needed strength, even though I felt his loss keenly.

I missed a good part of the discussion between Samwise and the wizard, it seems, for when I returned my attention to them the Halfling was in tears already, fumbling with the straps and unloading the pony's packs, throwing them all on the ground. Meriadoc and Peregrin – and indeed, even the Ring-bearer himself – sorted out the goods, chasing us, "clumsy Big People", as they said, out of the way. They made a pile of all that had to be left behind, commenting sadly on the considerable size of that pile, and divided the meagre rest. Realizing how little we could take with us made even my heart heavy, and the Halflings looked more than a little unhappy.

When all was done, we turned to watch Mithrandir again. If any of us expected some spectacular demonstration of wizardry, we were disappointed. The old wizard appeared to have done nothing during all the time. He was standing between the two trees gazing at the blank wall of the cliff, as if he wanted to bore a hole into it with his eyes, and I began to doubt that he would be able to find the Doors at all. My father had always said that Mithrandir was no good – full of tricks and deception, but no true powers – and despite the fireworks that had scared the Wargs away, I asked myself whether he truly could do aught else but blind some easily-impressed Halflings with his jests and games.

The Dwarf seemed to have come to the same conclusion, for he had already begun to look for the Doors on his own, wandering about, tapping the stone here and there with his axe and muttering into his fiery beard in his own, strange tongue. To my surprise, I also saw Legolas, next to one of the ancient trees, pressed against the rock, as if listening, and I wondered what he might hear – if anything.

Apparently, patience was not one of the strengths of Halflings, for they were fidgeting already. As expected, Meriadoc was the first to give in to his worries – as he was the one who dreaded the thought of crossing the Mines most.

"Well, here we are and all ready," he said, his clear little voice uncommonly sharp and irritated. "But where are the Doors? I cannot see any sign of them."

Gimli turned away from the rock wall he was examining and gave the irritated hobbit a sour look.

"Dwarf-doors are not made to be seen when shut," he said in a lecturing tone. "They are invisible, and their own masters cannot find them, if their secret is forgotten."

"Why am I not surprised?" Legolas commented softly, but still loud enough for the Dwarf to hear. I groaned, fearing another outburst of their never-ending quarrel, and I could see Aragorn rolling his eyes, too.

But nay, fortunately Mithrandir chose this very moment to come suddenly to life and turn around.

"But this Door was not made to be a secret known only to Dwarves," he said. "Unless things have altogether changed, eyes that know what to look for may discover the signs."

"What signs?" Meriadoc asked, not the least reassured. It seemed that I was not the only one who could make no sense of the wizard's riddled words, despite the fact that the Halflings had known him all their lives.

"You will see in a moment," Mithrandir replied, walking forward to the wall.

Following his movements we could make out a smooth place between the shadow of the trees – a rather tall and wide space, where the rock looked as if it had been polished over with great care, even though it had apparently happened a long time ago. Over this space now Mithrandir passed his hands to and fro, muttering words under his breath in a tongue that I could not understand. Then he stepped back.

"Look!" he said. "Can you see anything now?"

The Moon now shone upon the grey face of the rock, but no matter how hard I tried, I could see naught else – and I was not the only one.

"All I can see is the rock itself," Peregrin muttered unhappily, and his cousin nodded in grim agreement. Then the youngest Halfling looked up to me with his head tilted to one side. "Can you see aught, Lord Boromir?" He kept addressing me like that, while he simply called Aragorn "Strider", even though out of all of the "Big People" he chose to keep company with me.

I shook my head and was just about to say that no, I could see naught, either, when on the surface, where the wizard's hands had passed, faint lines began to appear slowly, faint like veins of silver running in the stone, delicate and beautiful.

"Look, Master Peregrin!" I said. "There is something."

"They look like pale gossamer-threads," Samwise commented in awe, and indeed, at first they were no more – so fine that they only twinkled fitfully where the silver beams of Ithil caught them. But slowly and steadily they grew broader and clearer, until their design could be guessed.

And I understood at once that we had, indeed, found the Doors.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Though calling them "doors" might have been a little exaggerated for something that still looked like silver painting on the rock surface. At the top, as high as Gandalf could reach, was a graceful arch of interlacing letters in Elvish characters, in a mode that had once been used in Beleriand that was now buried under the Sea, and later among the Elven-smiths of Eregion. Thank all those studies forced upon him in his youth by his father, Boromir could read the letters – he even recognized a word or two – but the meaning of the writing eluded him.

Below the arch, though the threads were in places blurred or broken, the outline could be seen of an anvil and a hammer surmounted by a crown with seven stars, shaped like a helmet. Beneath these again were two trees, each bearing crescent moons. More clearly than all else there shone forth in the middle of the door a single star with sixteen rays.

They all gaped in awe at he exquisite craftsmanship before their eyes, but most amazed of all was Gimli, of course.

"These are the emblems of Durin!" he cried in delight, forgetting even the peril of the Wargs that could catch up with them any moment.

"And there is the Tree of the High Elves," added Legolas. "I have heard wondrous tales in Imladris about the making of these doors, as Gildor Inglorion witnessed their making. These emblems are wrought of _ithildin that mirrors only starlight and moonlight, 'tis said, and sleeps until it is touched by one who speaks words now long forgotten in Middle-earth."_

"'Tis true," nodded Gandalf. "Even for me, it has been a long time since I heard them, and I had to think deeply before I could recall them to my mind."

"But what does the writing say?" asked Frodo, who was trying to decipher the inscription on the arch. "I thought I knew the Elf-letters, but I cannot read these."

"_Ennyn Durin Aran Moria: pedo mellon a monno. Im Narvi hain echant: Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant I thiv hin_," Legolas read for him with ease; seeing the stunned looks of the others, the Elf shrugged. "I might not be a lore-master like Elrond, but I am the son of a King nevertheless. Do you believe that shooting arrows was the only thing I learned in more than three thousand years?"

"No, we do not," replied Frodo apologetically, "but I still understand not the meaning of these words."

"The words are in the Elven-tongue of the West of Middle-earth in the Elder Days," answered Gandalf in Legolas' stead. "But they do not say aught of importance to us. They say only: 'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend and enter!' And underneath small and faint is written: 'I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.'"

"That is why the Star of the House of Fëanor is in the middle of the door," Legolas added. "For Celebrimbor was the grandson of Fëanor, and his skills nearly matched those of his grandsire."

"The last sensitive Elf who ever walked in Middle-earth," grumbled Gimli. "At least the Elves of Eregion appreciated fine craftsmanship instead of whining about trees that were felled for fire."

If he expected Legolas to pick up the challenge, he waited in vain. The only answer the Elf gave him was a meaningful look at the truly magnificent trees that guarded the closed Doors – had guarded them for over four thousand years. The message was clear for everyone: Celebrimbor and his people apparently had been just as fond of trees as any other Elf.

"What does it mean by 'speak, friend, and enter'?" asked Merry hurriedly, as if trying to change the subject and avoid another quarrel between the Dwarf and the Elf.

"That is plain enough," said Gimli impatiently. "If you are a friend, speak the password, and the Doors will open, and you can enter."

"The _password_?" Pippin's eyes grew incredibly wide with excitement; no Hobbit could ever ignore a good riddle. "You mean these are magic doors, just like the ones in the palace of Legolas' father in Mirkwood? The ones Bilbo told us of?"

"Ha!" the Dwarf snorted. "Thranduil's doors are naught compared with these here! They were made by the masters of some nether clan from the Grey Mountains!"

"That might be so," Legolas replied with deceiving mildness, "but at least we _are_ able to open and close them at will."

Aragorn suppressed a groan… and the urge to roll his eyes in despair once again. Despite their long friendship, at times he wished to throttle Legolas for that Silvan stubbornness of his.

"I am certain that we will open these doors as well," the Ranger said. "If the Elves could do it, so should we, I deem."

"Yes," said Gandalf, "I, too, think that these doors are governed by words. I wish we had Gildor with us, for he has visited Moria in the times of its glory, and mayhap would remember the opening spell as well."

"Then mayhap you should have advised Elrond to send a more useful Elf along with the Fellowship," commented Legolas icily. "Though knowing the words alone might not be enough, as some Dwarf-gates will open only at special times, or for particular persons; and some have locks and keys that are still needed when all necessary times and words are known. Or so those lesser masters of the Ered Mithrin have told us long time ago."

"True," admitted the wizard, ignoring the challenge in the Elf's voice, "yet I happen to know that _these_ doors have no key. In the days of Durin they were not secret. They usually stood open, and doorwardens sat there. But if they were shut, any who knew the opening word could speak and pass in. At least so it is recorded, is it not, Gimli?"

"It is," said the Dwarf. "But what the words were is not remembered, unless this Lord Gildor can recall them. For Narvi and his craft and all his kindred have vanished from the earth."

"But do not _you_ know the word, Gandalf?" asked Boromir in surprise. "Surely you had counselled with Gildor Inglorion ere we left Imladris, as you had planned this way all along?"

"Nay," said the wizard, "for he left the Valley on some sort of errantry after the Council, and I had no chance to discuss our travelling plans with him."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3: Secrets and Spells

**DESCENDING TO DARKNESS**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: see Introduction.**

**Rating:  PG, for this chapter**

**Author's notes: Accidentally, this chapter has the same title as its equivalent in my Mary Sue parody – for no apparent reason. I simply liked the sound of it. Also, I am trying to write shorter chapters than it is my wont, for easier reading.**

As always, many thanks to Snicklepop for beta-reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.

CHAPTER THREE: SECRETS AND SPELLS 

Gandalf's confession that he knew not the opening words for the Doors of Moria caused great distress among the others. The Hobbits were very near to panic, even though Frodo kept a composed look as always, Gimli looked sorely disappointed, while Legolas, strangely, seemed relieved. Boromir felt a great anger rising in his breast like a hungry fire, ready to burst out. Only Aragorn, who knew Gandalf well, remained silent and unmoved.

Boromir, however, felt less restraint. The closeness of that dark pool filled his heart with unease, as if some malevolent being was watching them from its murky depths – patiently and with an unquenchable hunger that reached back to before the very birth of Time. Every time he glanced back at the dark water, he shuddered, and showing such weakness was not to his liking at all.

"Then what was the use of bringing us to this accursed place?" he asked, fighting the sound of his own fear; he wanted not to frighten the Halflings out of their minds. "You told us that you had once passed through the Mines. How could that be, if you knew not how to enter?"

Gandalf clearly disliked being questioned in this manner, if the angry glare he gave the Heir of Gondor was of any indication. But Boromir was beyond annoying the wizard already, even though he knew how unwise it was to raise the Grey Pilgrim's ire. Gandalf was known as one of the very few people who could stand up to the Steward of Gondor when Denethor was at his enraged worst – something not even Boromir himself was always able to do. Still, right now,  he wanted answers and was not willing to back off.

"Well, Mithrandir," he said again, and his voice sounding harsh even in his own ears; "what is your answer?"

"My answer to your first question, son of Denethor, is, that I know not the word – yet. But we shall soon see," replied the wizard, and there was a dangerous glint in those deep eyes, under their bristling brows. "And you may ask what is the use of my deeds when they are proved useless."

"Worry not," said Boromir calmly, "I will. For I clearly see no way that would lead inside, unless you know the word. And you have still answered not my other question: how did you pass the Mines the last time?"

"Do you doubt my tale?" the wizard asked in a low, dangerous voice. "Or have you no wits left? I did not enter this way. I came from the East."

"I may be an unhewn soldier in your eyes, Mithrandir," said Boromir, and now _his_ eyes began to burn with cold wrath, too, "but regardless of what you may think of me, I am no fool. _And_ I dare to doubt your tale, indeed. For even though you entered Moria through its East Gate, you had to come out somehow, I deem."

"Boromir," the Dwarf lay a broad hand soothingly upon his vambrance, "you do not understand how these doors work. If you wish to know, I shall tell you that they open outwards. From the inside you may thrust them open with your hands. From the outside, though, naught will move them save the spell of command. They cannot be forced inwards. That is the way _all Dwarven doors have been made since Durin's days, unless they were protected by additional means and secrecy."_

"And _that_ is exactly how I passed _these_ doors, a long time ago," added Gandalf, still fuming slightly with anger.

This silenced Boromir, for there was naught else for him to say, even though the doubt and mistrust had not completely been lifted off his heart. 

Only Pippin seemed undaunted by the wizard's bristling brows.  "What are you going to do then?" he asked brightly, as if they were back in the Shire still, planning some cheerful surprise for Bilbo's birthday or whatnot. Boromir stifled a chuckle – Pippin's irrepressible nature never failed to amuse him.

Gandalf, on the other hand, found the Hobbit's question less than funny.

"Knock on the doors with your head, Peregrin Took," he said, irritated. "But if that does not shatter them, and I am allowed a little piece from foolish questions, I will seek for the opening words."

"How would you do that?" asked Merry quietly – he, too, feared the Mines far more than the irate wizard, and in his heart he hoped the doors would prove impossible to open. Even if it meant that they would have to fight the Wargs one more time.

Gandalf looked down, straight into the worried eyes of the young Brandybuck, and tamed his own temper. There was no use frightening the Hobbits, and if Merry, the bravest and most adventurous of them was full of fear and concern, reassurance had to be given.

"Have faith, Master Brandybuck," the wizard said with a gentleness that Boromir would never expect of him. "I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves or Men or Orcs that was ever used for such purpose…"

Boromir shot him a doubtful look – it seemed unlikely that anyone, even a wizard, would know _every_ such spell. This boasting might have eased the Halflings' anxiety, but who knew how much truth there was behind those grand words?

Interestingly enough, even though the Hobbits normally took Gandalf's words as truth, Merry did not appear completely reassured.

"And how many of those spells do you still remember?" he asked the wizard, glancing worriedly at Pippin, whom – being the older cousin – he considered as his responsibility.

"Ten score", replied Gandalf promptly, "and that  without racking my brains."

"Ten score?" Merry repeated with a frown. "Are we supposed to sit here and wait 'til you try every single one of them?"

"Do we have any other choice?" interrupted Frodo with a question of his own.

'Twas now Boromir's turn to frown. The Ring-bearer obviously trusted the wizard blindly – that was not new. Still, if he could find the chance to speak with Frodo in private, he might bring him to reason. The Halfling was no fool – surely he could be persuaded to do the right thing, if others did not intervene.

"Nay, you have not," replied Gandalf to Frodo's question. "But only a few trials, I think, will be needed; and I shall not have to call on Gimli for words of the secret Dwarf-tongue that they teach to none."

"To _almost_ none," corrected the Dwarf. "We teach it not to other people in these times; but, once there were Elves, trustworthy ones, who _were_ taught some of it. Celebrimbor himself was one of those, and so was his father."

"Still, I am certain that the opening words were Elvish, like the writing on the arch," said Gandalf; "because of the use for which the road and the doors were originally made."

"In that case you should begin to search for the right word," grumbled the Dwarf, "if we want to enter the Mines ere the Wargs catch up with us."

"That is what I am trying to do," replied Gandalf with a patience that once again surprised Boromir. "And you are _not helping, Master Dwarf!"_

Gimli bowed to him in Dwarf-fashion, bending slightly from the hips only, while his back remained straight. It looked like a stiff and rather… uncomfortable gesture.

"Forgive me, Tharkûn," he said. "The concern spoke from me. I shall be quiet now."

The wizard gave him a short nod of acceptance. Then he stepped up to the rock again, and reaching out with his gnarled staff he touched the silver star in the middle directly under the sign of the anvil. While he pressed lightly, he spoke in a clear, commanding voice that echoed ringing from the smoothed rock wall like a signal bell: in the same tongue as the writing was composed in.

_Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen!_

_Fennas nogothrim lasto beth lammen!_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We all waited with caught breath for what might happen. Unfortunately, not much did.  The silver lines faded for a moment, but the blank grey stone did not stir.

Mithrandir seemed taken aback a little, but to his credit he gave not up easily. Many times he repeated these same words, in different order or in various intonations.  But  nothing seemed to work.

"What did he say?" Peregrin asked the Ringbearer, his curiosity conquering his fear. Never in my whole life have I seen a being who could ask so many questions. In a way, his eagerness was charming, even though those who were expected to provide the answers might find him bothersome at times.

For my part, I always found it comforting to answer his questions about Gondor, Minas Tirith, my brother, our food, songs and customs. He was interested in small things mostly;  and in exchange told me about the simple, delightful life in their strange little land in generous detail. While our conversations might have little to do with lore or wisdom, they reminded me of the true reason for our long, twilight struggle – that we fought this endless battle against the Darkness so that at least _some_ people could live life free of the Shadow.

Indeed, just being with the little folk eased the burden of my heart, and at times I wondered what it would be like to have someone of such irrepressible good humour in my father's much too stern and dour court. I have long since given up believing in wonders (though were I allowed to have more time with my Elf I might have re-claimed my childhood beliefs) but it seems to me that young Peregrin could make even my father smile.

Frodo could not answer Peregrin's question, and the young Took, who could never allow  his curiosity to be unsatisfied, tugged on Legolas' tunic impatiently.

"Legolas! What did Gandalf say?"

The Elf squatted down to him and tilted his head on one side in a strange, bird-like manner. I had noticed this habit many times before, and knew that it drove Gimli mad, yet I doubted that Legolas did it on purpose. It must be one of those peculiar Wood-Elf things.

"Want to know the Noble Tongue, Master Took?" he asked teasingly. Peregrin shook his head most determinedly.

"Naaay… I only want to know this spell."

"What for?" asked Legolas; then he added with a mischievous grin: "It seems not to work all too well…"

Mithrandir must have heard him, for he shot the Elf an irritated look before continuing his so far fruitless efforts. Legolas' grin broadened, and I began to wonder about things that Elves found amusing. Our situation was anything but funny at the moment, and for short while I considered throttling him… even though I wanted no more to go through the Mines than he did.

Peregrin, however, did not let himself be distracted so easily. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now – which meant he would be nagging Legolas mercilessly until he got them.

"Still, I want to know what those words mean," he repeated stubbornly.

Legolas gave an exaggerated sigh, but his leaf-green eyes were twinkling in merriment. Apparently, he found the youngest Halfling highly amusing company.

"Well then, o most insatiable hobbit, I shall reveal for you the meaning of those riddled words," he said in playful formality, and I could hardly believe that this was the same Elf who had pulled steel on Gimli not so long ago. "But you must promise that you will be quiet after that. I wish to listen to the voices of the night."

No matter how lightly he said the last words, they made me restless again. For I knew why he wanted to listen – he wanted to hear the approach of the Wargs, should they catch up with us under the veil of the night.

"I promise," said Peregrin impatiently. "Now tell me!"

The Elf laughed quietly – it was a rare and pleasant sound that reminded me of peaceful nights in Imladris – and finally gave in.

"As you wish. But it is not that interesting, truly. The spell simply says: 'Gate of Elves, open now for me! Doorway of Dwarrows, listen to my words!'(1)"

Peregrin glared at the Elf suspiciously. "That is all?"

Legolas shrugged. "What else do you wish for? 'Tis a common enough spell that has been used for such purposes for two Ages, at the very least."

"Yet apparently not among the elves of Eregion," said Frodo quietly.

"Nay," Legolas answered. "I think not. Still, I would say Gandalf is not beaten yet. Keep up your spirits and try to rest for as long as you can. For I fear this might be your last chance, whether the Doors open or not."

With these words he rose gracefully and departed with those weightless, cat-like strides of his towards the pool.

"I shall take a look southward along the lake-side," he called back over his shoulder – then he was swallowed by the darkness.

"Do you believe he will find something?" I asked my would-be King quietly. Aragorn sighed, giving the eerily silent, dark pool an uneasy look.

"I know not," he answered in a voice as low as mine had been. "Yet I wish Gandalf would find the opening spell, soon. I have a very bad feeling."

"Foresight?" I asked, not truly teasing. I have learnt to respect the gut feeling and disturbing dreams of my brother, and if Aragorn in truth was a pure blooded Dúnadan of royal breed, his gift – or curse, depending on one's point of view – might have been twice as strong as Faramir's. Or even Father's.

"Experience," he answered wryly. "Thank the Valar, my dreams are rare and far between. But I have spent most of my adult life in the wilderness and have learnt to listen to its signs. Something here is very, very foul – as if the rock itself would watch us with  wakefulness and wrath. Can you not feel it?"

"I feel as if we are  watched," I replied. "By whom or what I cannot say, but what ever it is and where ever it hides, it cannot mind well with us. We should leave here. Now."

Aragorn nodded in agreement, which was a rare thing between us. Unfortunately, it helped us little, for the only one who could open the way of escape – even if it led to even greater perils – was Mithrandir, and he was having little success in doing so.

He had abandoned the words of the first spell and tried other spells, one after another, speaking now faster and louder, now soft and slow. None of them pulled a response from the stone. Then he spoke many single words in different Elven tongues, some even I could understand, while some were unknown to us all, including Aragorn, though he had been raised by Elrond and taught Elven lore.

Nothing happened. The cliff towered into the night, the countless stars were kindled, the wind blew cold – and the Doors stood fast, framed by the two great holly-trees that stood stiff, dark, and silent, throwing deep shadows in the moonlight.

"I feel like I am trapped in a nightmare," I murmured, my eyes turning back to the dark and silent waters again and again. Aragorn followed my look.

"You are," he replied gloomily; "we all are."

There was naught I could answer to _that, and so we sat in shared anxiety, watching as Mithrandir approached the wall again, lifting up his arms, so that his wide sleeves hung like huge bat-wings, he spoke in command and rising wrath._

"_Edro, edro_!" he cried, and struck the rock with his staff.

As before, nothing happened.

"Open, open!" he shouted again, this time in Westron, and followed it with the same command in every language that had ever been spoken in the West of Middle-earth – or at least so it seemed. I recognized Adûnaic, Rohirric, Dunlendish, three different dialects of Haradric and two Elven tongues that I was fleetingly familiar with. What the others were I could not even guess. But one thing they all had in common – they opened the Doors of Moria not.

After a while Mithrandir, too, seemed to realize his own defeat. He threw his staff on the ground, and sat down in silence.

"Aragorn, 'tis hopeless," I said to my King-to-be in a voice I hoped was too low for the Halflings to hear, "you know that as well as I do. We should never have come here."

"Mayhap," he agreed reluctantly, for he had been against this road himself, and I knew that. "Yet now we are here and here we must come through… somehow."

"Why should we?" I asked, for his stubbornness angered me more than a little. "'Tis still not too late to make for the Gap of Rohan. Not even Curunír can be everywhere, and Prince Théodred is a good friend of mine. We could get help from him: horses and supplies, mayhap even a small escort, not enough to draw unwanted attention but enough for us to travel safely for a while. It was folly to set off on foot in the first place!"

He looked at me indecisively, and in the moonlight I saw doubt in his grey eyes – for the first time ever since we met. For a fleeting moment I almost hoped he would listen to reason. But alas! Fate remained unkind to me… to all of us. At that very moment from far off  the wind bore to our listening ears a disturbingly familiar sound.

The howling of wolves.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That, of course, pretty much ended any discussion about going back and making for the Gap of Rohan after all. With the Wargs on their trail, there remained only one way for them: through the Mines. Unfortunately, that way, too, was still blocked.

The Hobbits all sprang to their feet to help Sam restrain Bill the pony – the poor beast startled in fear and nearly broke away, but they caught him just in time, and Sam's softly whispered endearments seemed to calm him down little by little.

"Do not let him run away!" said Boromir, casting an uneasy look first at the still closed Doors and the motionless wizard, then at the dark, stagnant water again. "It seems that we shall need him still, if the wolves do not find us."

"You truly believe that we have a chance to shake off the Wargs after they have picked up our scent?" asked the Ranger gravely. "Nay, Boromir; not even the stench of this lake would be strong enough to fool their noses. Even if we swam across it, soiling ourselves with its murk, it would not be enough."

"You must be insane for even thinking of swimming across this foul pool," replied Boromir, stooping and picking up a large stone, which he cast as far into the dark water as he could. "Valar, how I hate it!"

Aragorn _did_ try to stop him, but he was too late. The stone, hurled far  with all the pent-up frustration that had grown in Boromir's gut since they arrived there, vanished with a soft slap. But at the same instant there was a swish and a bubble. Great rippling rings formed on the surface out beyond where the stone had fallen – and they moved slowly towards the foot of the cliff.

Boromir heard a sudden, sharp intake of breath and glanced down – right into the worried, very serious eyes of the Ringbearer.

"Why did you do that, Boromir?" asked Frodo. "I hate this place, too, and I am afraid."

"What of?" asked Boromir, and Frodo shrugged uncertainly.

"I know not: not of the wolves or the dark behind the Doors, though all that, too, fills my heart with unease. But there is something else… some unknown evil that I can feel but cannot see."

"The pool," Boromir muttered. "There _is something in that foul water; something very old and very, very evil. I can feel its hunger in my bones."_

"So can I," said Frodo quietly, "and I wish you had not disturbed the water. For thus far, what ever it is, it was quiet. Who knows what you have awakened?"

"I know not, and I doubt that even Gimli does," said Aragorn. "For this lake was not here when I visited this place the last time, and what ever dwells in the water, must have been driven out from its hiding place, deep under the mountains – by whom or by what, I cannot say."

"And I care not, truth be told," said Merry, watching the water anxiously. "All I wish is that we could get away."

Pippin nodded in complete agreement and eased closer to Boromir, almost involuntarily. The presence of his big, valiant friend gave him a feeling of safety.

"Why does not Gandalf do something quickly?" he asked.

Gandalf took no notice of them. He sat with his head bowed – either in despair or in anxious thought. The others found this rather unsettling, as the mournful howling of the wolves was heard again, this time closer than before, and they feared that the fell beasts would reach them ere the wizard found the means to open the Doors.

"Where is Legolas?" asked Frodo suddenly. "It might not be the best idea to become separated. The wolves are closing up to us, and the water…"

He trailed off, but the others followed his gaze and understood what he meant. The ripples on the water grew and came closer; some were already lapping on the shore.

"Whatever it is, it is coming," said Aragorn grimly, drawing his sword. "Frodo is right – we may need Legolas very soon, as he is the only one of us with a bow(2)."

Boromir followed suit, and the Hobbits, too, draw their short swords. Frodo cast a look at Sting, but the blade remained dull and grey.

_At least no Orcs, he thought, but that was small comfort. What ever was coming out of the water certainly was bigger than any Orc. Several times, if the size of the ripples was of any indication._

Yet in the next moment they forgot about the upcoming peril, for with a suddenness that startled them all the wizard sprang to his feet.

And he was laughing!

"I have it!" he cried in delight. "Of course, of course! Absurdly simple, like most riddles when you see the answer!"

No matter how much he disliked the thought of crossing the Mines, even Aragorn seemed utterly relieved. Anything was better than being caught between the wolves and the rock wall – or whatever was emerging from the dark lake that very moment.

"You have found the word?" he asked. Gandalf nodded with a broad smile.

"I have indeed.  Watch!"

Picking up his staff he stepped before the rock and said in a clear voice that bore more power than one would expect from such a bearded old Man: "_Mellon_!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I knew well what that word meant, of course. I _had been taught the Elven-speech, after all, and my time with Elladan brought many things that I thought forgotten back to my mind. Still I wondered what such a simple word might do – surely it could not be the opening spell!_

But I was mistaken, obviously. For as soon as the upper end of that gnarled staff touched the many-rayed star in the middle of the door, it shone out briefly and faded again. Then, to my great wonder, silently a great doorway was outlined, though not a crack or joint had been visible before. I must admit that up to that moment I had doubted that the Doors actually existed. But now that magic doorway slowly divided in the middle and swung, still noiselessly, outwards, inch by inch, until both doors lay back against the wall.

Through the opening a shadowy stair could be seen, climbing steeply up; but beyond the lower steps the darkness was even deeper than the night. The Halflings gaped and the Dwarf stared in wonder; as for myself, that darkness made me concerned, more than the howling of wolves that kept coming closer. Still, I wished Faramir could be here to see this, as it was something he would appreciate more than I was aver able to.

After the first joyful shock all eyes turned to Mithrandir in wonder and askance, and the wizard laughed quietly.

"I was wrong after all," he said, "and Gimli too. Merry, of all people, was on the right track."

The Dwarf apparently disliked this statement, grumbling something into his beard in his peculiar tongue. Meriadoc, however, looked up to the wizard in pleased surprise.

"I was right?" he repeated. "But I said naught of importance."

"Oh, but you did," replied Mithrandir. "You asked what it meant 'Speak, friend, and enter'."

"True. And?" Meriadoc was still unaware of why it would be so important. And, truth be told, so was I.

Mithrandir laughed again, pleased with himself.

"My dear hobbit, the opening word was inscribed on the archway all the time!" he said. Gimli frowned unhappily that it was not he who made this discovery.

"It was?" he asked. "Where?"

"I made a mistake," the wizard admitted; "a small but important one. The translation should have been: _Say 'Friend' and enter. I had only to speak the Elvish word for __friend and the Doors opened. Quite simple."_

"Then how come that you did not see it right at the first moment?" I asked, my voice mayhap a little too harsh, even for my own ears. Yet to my surprise Mithrandir did not become angry this time, even though it had taken less to enrage him earlier.

He looked at me thoughtfully with those deep, dark eyes of his, and it seemed to me that his face was veiled by great sadness.

"Mayhap it was too simple for a learned lore-master in these suspicious days," he answered quietly. "Those were happier days. Now let us go!"

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) The translation of the second part of the spell is not completely genuine. I wanted something that sounded a little strange, so I used the originally intended plural for the word 'Dwarf'.

(2) In the books he was, indeed. And this is a bookverse fic.


	4. Chapter 4: The Devil From the Depths

**DESCENDING TO DARKNESS**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: see Introduction.**

**Rating:  PG, for this chapter. Implied m/m actions.**

**Author's notes:**

For the description of the fight against the Watcher in the Water I used some movie imagery. Gimli's mention of an old Dwarven legend is from HoME 6, if I remember correctly. I included it in this chapter for Deborah, who has an interest for Dwarven legends. :)

My sincerest thanks, as always, go to Snicklepop for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.

**CHAPTER FOUR: THE DEVIL FROM THE DEPTHS**(1)

Gandalf strode forward and set his foot on the lowest step. The hobbits followed tentatively, but none as soon as Gimli, who was now more eager than before to see the great realm of his forefather. Sam looked hesitatingly back and forth between the Doors and Bill the pony, who seemed very upset, rolling his eyes and smoothing back his ears. Obviously, the good beast felt some great peril approaching – something much closer than the wolves that were still howling from some distance.

Boromir draw his sword and looked around. He saw naught so far; but, as he made a count of the Fellowship, he noticed that one of them was still missing.

"Where is Legolas?" he asked in concern. "We cannot leave without him!"

Gandalf stopped and turned back with a frown.

"Is he not back yet?" he asked. Boromir shook his head.

"Trust an Elf to get lost when great speed is needed," grumbled Gimli.

Ere anyone could reply to that, Frodo was suddenly grabbed from behind as if by invisible hands and pulled off his feet. At the same moment the pony gave a wild neigh of fear, turned tail and dashed away along the lakeside into the darkness. Sam leaped after him, but hearing Frodo's cry ran back again, weeping and cursing.

"Strider! Help!"

The others, too, swung round and saw the waters of the lake seething, as if a host of snaked were swimming up from the southern end. Out from the water a long, sinuous tentacle had crawled: it was pale green and luminous and wet.  Once again, Boromir was reminded of the giant, Man-eating Sea-serpents of the hair-raising tales told in Dol Amroth's taverns where far-travelled mariners shared tales of their adventures. He felt the same numbing fear rising in his chest that he had felt back then as a very young boy listening to those stories. For an endless moment he was unable to even move.

The fingered end of the tentacle had a hold of Frodo's foot and was dragging him into the water. Merry and Pippin, shaken out of their shock by Sam's cries, ran down and threw themselves upon Frodo, clutching him in a desperate attempt to slow down his slide toward the lake. While Sam, fallen to his knees, was slashing at the tentacle with his knife… with little success so far.

"Get off him, you fell monster!" he cried frantically, not understanding where the Men tarried while his Master was in dire need. "Strider!"

For a moment the arm let go of Frodo, feigning disappearance under the waters, and Sam, crying out for help again, tried to pull him away. But all of a sudden at least twenty other tentacles came rippling out. The dark water boiled, and there was a stench so hideous that Boromir very nearly threw up. Only his iron self-discipline saved him from getting sick right there.

The tentacles came thrusting out of the water, slapping the other hobbits away like small wooden toys and grabbing Frodo around the leg. Once again, he was pulled out and lifted over the water and into the air.

"Frodo!" called Merry, slashing at the nearest tentacle with his short sword furiously, but with very little effect. In fact, his efforts only seemed to make the tentacles attack more viciously.

Suddenly, the singing of a bowstring could be heard. Legolas came running up onto the shore and shot. His arrow pierced a three-pronged tentacle that was tying to wrap itself over Frodo's face. The Hobbit gasped for air and cried out for help. "Strider!"

Boromir finally shook off his horror and rushed to the water, hot on Aragorn's heels, and began attacking the beast. After all the tense anxiety of the last hours, he finally was able to _do something, and he hesitated not for a moment to use his chance. But the glistening arms turned out to be disturbingly resilient – even his heavy sword could barely cut through the tough skin._

With an enraged battle cry, Boromir threw away his shield, gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and heaved away, adding the weight of his whole body to the strength of his heaves.  He butchered several of the snake-like appendages with grim satisfaction, driven by the near-insane need to kill this creature, whatever it was, that had managed to set him back in the state of numbing childhood horrors.

On his right Aragorn, too, was slashing the beast with the Sword that was Reforged, and for a fleeting moment of honest admiration Boromir had to admit that the hand that wielded it had indeed inherited the sinews of the Kings of Men. If naught else, Isildur's Heir was an excellent swordsman.

Slightly off on his left he could hear the singing of the Elven bow as it was bent to its limit, Legolas pulling the string back behind his own ear in order to send out his deadly arrows with the greatest possible strength(2). A Gondorian bow, such as Faramir and his Rangers used in Ithilien, would not bear such abuse for long, but obviously Elven bows could endure a lot more – and so did Elven sinews. Bending a bow like that demanded a strength few Men would possess, yet Legolas showed no sign of strain.

Boromir shook the wet hair off his face and looked around to measure their situation. It looked _not_ good. Despite their efforts, the Ringbearer was still dangling high above the water from one of the tentacles, being lowered towards a gapping maw, ringed by fangs, set in a gilled face of some ancient beast whose huge, pale old eyes glistened fish-like from its head.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I realized not that I was lowering my sword, standing petrified upon the shore in hapless horror again. All I could see was that big head – it was so huge that the creature could have swallowed all of us with one bite – framed by those log, thorn-like fringes, longer that the height of a grown man and looking like the tresses of some crazed Sea-giant.

Though I never saw one with my own eyes (as I rarely had the chance to board one of Dol Amroth's ships,) I recognized the creature from the tales of the old mariners who earned their next tankard of ale by spinning tales in the taverns of Dol Amroth's harbour. It was a Kraken – there could be no doubt it. Only that I never believed them to be real. Old mariners were often known to spin tales of pure imagination.

Now I was forced to learn better.

I still believed not that this creature was big enough to swallow whole ships, but his maw certainly seemed wide enough for any Hobbit, Dwarf, Elf or Man to vanish in it, and in those ancient eyes was a malice, older than the world itself perhaps. A malice and a bottomless hunger that chilled me to the bone.

This was what I had felt from that accursed lake ever since we reached the Doors of Moria! Mayhap the Kraken had watched us all the time, waiting for the moment when our watchfulness was the weakest to attack.

'Tis possible, though, that it was sleeping in the farthest corner of the lake, not expecting any intruders.

In which case 'twas my own foolishness that awakened it, endangering all our lives. Why in Mordor did I have to throw that cursed stone? I behaved like a child that could not master his fears. And if the Ringbearer, or any of the Fellowship should die, it would be my fault. Though I was not the leader at any point of this journey, I had failed them nonetheless.

Never in my life had I failed my comrades before. Not as a young man in my first battle, not as the Captain of Osgiliath's defences, nor as the Captain-General of Gondor. Never – until now.

"Boromir!" someone screamed, and only a moment later did I recognize the clear voice of young Peregrin. "Above you!"

I looked up and saw the tentacle that held the Ringbearer coiling right above my head. I raised my sword again but was bested by Aragorn. Andúril sliced through that slimy arm like a hot knife through butter; it uncurled, and Frodo fell into my arms like a ripe fruit, making me effectively defenceless.

Behind me I heard the urgent voice of Mithrandir.

"Into the gateway! Up the stairs! Quick!" the wizard shouted, leaping back. Rousing us from the horror that rooted all of us to the ground for a moment when we believed that Frodo would fall into the maw of the Kraken, he drove us forward.

'Twas time to move indeed, for as we hastily retreated towards the Doors, other tentacles rose from the waters again.

"Legolas!" I shouted, running after Aragorn, clutching Frodo tightly, as if I were pursued by the fates; for I saw a huge tentacle uncoiling a hand-like appendage snaking after us, and I knew we had no chance to outrun it.

The Elf nodded with an uncanny calm and took arm. His bright eyes glittered in the moonlike like cold jewels.

"Go!" he said curtly. "I shall take care of it."

"Into the cave!" Aragorn shouted, urging us to go on in, and I ran for dear life.

At this moment Legolas finally released his arrow. I risked a glance back over my shoulder and saw it embedding itself deeply into the beast's right eye, and the Kraken recoiled for a moment with an ear-splitting roar. Aragorn picked up my shield and shoved me towards the Door, none too gently.

"No time for tarrying. Run!"

And run we did, racing straight into the Black Pit – just in time. Sam and Frodo, whom I had to put down as soon as we crossed the threshold, were only a few steps up, and Mithrandir had just begun to climb when the groping tentacles writhed across the narrow shore and fingered the cliff-wall and the Doors.

Legolas came running up, hot in my heels, almost knocking me up the stairs. He did not even seem out of breath.

"Do not tarry!" he said, using almost the same words as Aragorn shortly before. "We cannot afford to lose time."

I glanced back again. One of the long, thick arms had already come wriggling over the threshold, glistening in the starlight. I grabbed my shield from Aragorn and got ready to fight the monster again, even for the price of my own life. The Ringbearer had to be defended, by any means necessary.

Mithrandir, too, turned and paused. Yet if he was considering what word would close the gate again from within, there was no need. Instead of groping for us again, the many coiling arms of the Kraken seized the Doors on either side, and with horrible strength, swung them round.

With a shattering echo they slammed, and all light was lost. A noise of rending and crashing came dully through the ponderous stone. Then there was silence.

We were trapped in the Mines, and our only way led through them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was utterly dark in the inside of the Black Pit, and for a moment they all stood, still shaking from the horrible fight with the ancient monster. Boromir felt the small frames of  Merry and Pippin clinging to him from both sides but was too shaken himself to offer any other comfort than an encouraging squeeze of the small shoulders – even though it was an encouragement he did not truly feel. His own spirits were quite low, too.

Next to him Sam was clinging to Frodo's arm, although he only felt them because in this unbroken darkness the presence of the Ring had grown strong enough that he could tell its whereabouts without as much as seeing Frodo. He heard the little gardener collapsing upon a nearby step.

"Poor old Bill!" Samwise muttered in a choking voice. "Poor old Bill! Wolves and snakes! But the snakes were too much for him."

"At least he got away unharmed," came Frodo's soft, comforting voice. "Think about that, Sam. Bill is a wise beast and has learned much in Rivendell, as Gandalf said. He will escape the wolves and find his way back to Elrond's house – or wherever he wishes to go."

"I still think that it was nothing short of murder to turn him loose with all those wolves around," answered Sam sullenly. "But I had to choose, Mr. Frodo. I had to come with you!"

"And I am grateful that you did, Sam," said Frodo gently. At that Sam had naught else to say, so he only sniffled a few times, and then they both remained silent for a while.

_'Tis curious how much the other senses seem to sharpen when one cannot see, thought Boromir absently, for he had no difficulty recognizing Gandalf's footfall as the wizard came back down the steps and thrust his staff against the Doors. By anyone else it would have been a ridiculous effort, but Boromir knew that in the hand of a wizard a staff could be much more than just an old man's walking aid. He had seen what Gandalf's staff could do with his own eyes during this quest, after all._

Yet this time the wizard's staff was of no use. Although there _was_ a quiver in the stone when it touched the Doors, and the stairs trembled for a moment, the gate did not open again. Boromir felt a dread feeling creeping into his heart as he saw his fear confirmed. They truly were enclosed in the Mountains!

Once, he was not afraid of enclosed spaces. Before he was made Captain of the defences of Osgiliath, he had served with the mountaineer troops that explored the caves of the White Mountains, hunting for Orcs that might be hiding there. And though he enjoyed little spending days and nights underground, he found it not particularly frightening, either.

That is, until the day when they walked straight into an ambush, set up by cave trolls, the existence of whom they had known, of course, but whom no-one of them had really expected to find there. Cave trolls were considered extinct in the White Mountains.

What followed was more a massacre than a fight. To the present day, Boromir did not understand how they had survived at all – at least those who did, for the greater part of his troops was killed swiftly and brutally.  That would have been their all fate, no doubt, had the Elves not come to their aid.

That was his first encounter with the Firstborn (save the few occasions he saw one of them from afar in his uncle Imrahil's court,) and that was mayhap the reason why he could relate to Legolas so much more than to the haughty and detached people of Imladris. For the Elves that had appeared as out of thin air, clad in rough, dark grey garb that was hardly distinguishable from the rocks themselves, were quiet and quick and deadly, and did not resemble Elrond's people at all.

Their whole attire served one purpose only: to be helpful in battle. Their dark hair was twisted into a simple knot on the top of their heads, and they wore flexible torso armours of small plates riveted inside a covering of leather(3), but even the plates of it were dulled grey, so that their glittering would not reveal them to the enemy. They fought with short spears and long knives, and with a savage fierceness that was in itself just as frightening as the trolls. And they knew the trolls and their fighting customs very well, easily finding weak spots on the huge, scaled beasts – weaknesses that Men had never heard of.

Even thus, the fight was cruel – and eerie, as it occurred in almost complete silence, save the grunts and groans of the wounded trolls. It went on for a long time, 'til the last troll was slain, and afterwards the strange Elves gave every fallen creature a thorough examination, to make sure no-one had survived. The trolls were dispatched with a cold efficiency that made the surviving Men shiver.

Some of the Elves were wounded, too, but none as severely than Boromir himself, who was slashed across his stomach with a filthy troll-blade. Beregond told him later that they had all but given up on him, for the wound was deep enough that they could see his inner organs through the wide slash. Yet the leader of the strange Elves gave him some arcane treatment, including dried herbs and healing spells, and dressed the wound with wet willow-bark that pulled it together and kept it closed.  He not only survived, but made it back to Minas Tirith – where he then spent several weeks in the Houses of Healing.

The Men tried to thank the strange Elves, but they understood neither Sindarin nor Westron.  When the elves spoke at all during the whole encounter, they only exchanged short, low voiced words with each other.  Their  tongue was so different that it hardly even sounded like the Elven speech Boromir had been taught as a child. Still, it was enough for the Men to recognize the Elven leader as a female – for though her voice was deeper than female voices usually were, it was soft and musical like all Elven voices.

Later, in Imladris, Elladan explained to Boromir that they had most likely encountered the Dark Elves – Avari they were called among heir own kin; the Unwilling, for they refused to leave the lands of their birth and never went to the West, not even as far as the other side of the Mountains. They avoided even other Elves, Elladan said, and lived in scattered settlements, deep inside the ancient forests or in closed, hidden valleys among the wildest mountains(4).

Yet when Boromir saw Legolas fighting the Wargs, he knew at once that this was not entirely true. For Legolas fought just as fiercely and savagely as those strange Elves back in the caves, and Boromir was sure that if no-where else, in Mirkwood there certainly was some contact between the Dark Elves and their Silvan brethren. Only an Avari armsmaster could have taught the son of an Elven King this particular fighting style.

He shook off his memories and glanced around to see if he could see the Prince of Mirkwood in this complete blackness – and, to his great surprise, he actually could! As his eyes adapted somewhat to the lack of light he saw back, where he guessed the Doors must have been, a slender shape, glowing softly, barely visible at all, but most certainly there. He remembered the night on Caradhras, where he first saw this, and wondered whether it happened every time when there was no other source of light or heat, or if Legolas could do it at will.

Gandalf still stood at the doors, listening to the noises from the other side of the stone slabs. Boromir could hear naught, himself, but maybe the ears of the wizard were better than those of a mere Man.

"Well, well!" said Gandalf, stating the obvious once again. "The passage is blocked behind us now, and there is only one way out – on the other side of the Mountains. I fear from the sounds that boulders have been piled up before the Doors. We cannot hope to move them again, even if we wished to get out in this side."

"There is more than that," said Legolas, his voice breaking with grief. "The old trees… they have been uprooted and thrown across the gate. I could hear their dying cries, even through all that stone."

"I am sorry," answered Gandalf quietly; he was perhaps the only one in the Fellowship who truly understood Legolas' loss. "For the trees were beautiful, and had stood so long."

"And now all they have seen and learnt in thousands of years is gone, too," the Elf added, sorrow and hatred filling his otherwise so pleasant voice. "If we survive this quest, then, by the holy name of Palúrien, I shall come back and tear that beast to pieces with my bare hands. That will not bring the trees back, but might save others of their kin."

"Palúrien…?" Boromir asked in a low voice from Aragorn, who now stood next to him.

"Yavanna," the Ranger explained. "That is how the woodland folk calls her: the Earth-lady. She is greatly respected among Silvan Elves."

"I felt something horrible was near from the moment that my foot first touched the water," said Frodo, who heard nothing of their short conversation.

"You were not the only one," replied Boromir grimly.

"But what was the thing," the hobbit asked, "or were there many of them?"

"I do not know," admitted Gandalf reluctantly. "But the arms were all guided by one purpose. Something has crept, or has been driven out of dark waters under the Mountains."

"In our old legends there are tales about groping arms that emerged from the waters and took our people when they were not watchful," murmured Gimli, and he could not suppress a shiver.

Legolas looked at Gandalf in askance. "But did you not say that there was no lake when you came here the last time? Where could this – whatever it was – have hidden before?"

"It was a Kraken," said Boromir grimly. "Old mariners in Dol Amroth's taverns often tell horrible tales about ancient Sea-monsters, and this thing certainly looked like one of those. Though how it has got here, so far from the Sea, I cannot say."

"It could have been trapped in the deep, dark waters that wash the roots of Arda, under the Mountains, Long ago, when the face of the Earth was different," said Gandalf. "There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world."

He did not speak out aloud, yet Boromir could not help thinking of how strange it had been that the Kraken had seized on the Ringbearer first among all the Fellowship.

"In the deep places of the world!" he muttered under his breath, to himself mostly, but the echoing stone magnified the sound to a hoarse whisper that all could hear. "In the deep places of the world indeed! And thither we are going against my wish. Who will lead us now in this deadly dark?

"I will," said Gandalf.  "And Gimli shall walk with me. Follow my staff!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I cannot say that Mithrandir's promise was a great reassurance to me. So far, his leadership had been aught but flawless. Yet we had little other choice than to follow him, and follow him we did, deeper and deeper into the long dark of the Mines.

For we had none else to lead us. Not even Gimli had been in the deep halls of his forefathers, therefore the wizard was the one to pass on ahead, up the great steps, holding his staff aloft, and lo! from its gnarled, root-like tip there came a faint radiance. 'Twas barely stronger than Legolas' glowing, but enough for us to see at least where we set our feet.

The wide stairway before us was surprisingly sound and undamaged, which gave me some hope that if naught else, _there had not been any fights. We began to climb the stairway, and I asked myself whether Gimli's kindred might still dwell somewhere in the depths, and if it had been them who had dammed their own gate-stream and driven the Kraken out of its former dwelling place._

The steps were broad and shallow, but the stairway seemed to have no end at all. Being used to climbing the seven stone rings of Minas Tirith, I felt it not too hard a climb, yet my small companions, who never left my side, were of a different mind. They panted and gasped for breath, wasting it for counting the steps at the same time.  After a while I understood that for their short legs, the steps must have been fairly high, as they were shorter even than the Dwarf.  I wished I could help them somehow.

Finally, we reached the top of the stairway and found an arched passage with a level floor leading on into the dark. The Halflings collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily.

"Two… hundred…," Peregrin gasped. "Why cannot Dwarves make nice, level floors like decent people? Bag End goes through the whole Hill, and still you need not to climb any steps there."

"Bag End is but a hobbit-hole," replied the Dwarf, sounding insulted. "This is… was a whole city, with many different levels. You are not at home any more."

"I wish I were," sighed Frodo. "But let us sit and rest and have something to eat, here on the landing. For I doubt that we shall find a dining-room soon."

The other hobbits agreed eagerly, and I could not help but wonder at their resilience. As if we were not in the Black Pit, they prepared a meal with gusto, forgetting already the fight with that ancient monster. While I, hardened warrior though I was, still felt the horror in my very bones, and I could see that Aragorn's eyes were haunted, too.

Part of our meagre food resources was passed around, and the Halflings ate with ravenous hunger. I could not suppress my amazement about how much these small creatures could eat. Once along our journey Peregrin tried to properly teach me all the names of regular hobbit meals, but I ceased to count them when he completed his lesson about the importance of elevenses. I was simply unable to keep count of all those small customs and rituals that regulated their everyday life. And I was amused that everyday life was mostly focussed on eating or preparing meals.

Yet, I could not deny feeling a faint envy, thinking of a land where producing and consuming food was the greatest concern. I wished the children of Gondor could have such a peaceful life. But I knew that that was not likely to happen. Not in the long run. Not when _He, whose greatest weapon a small Halfling was wearing on a fine chain upon his neck, sat in his dark tower beyond the Ephel Dúath, watching our lands._

During my musings the others had eaten, and now Mithrandir was passing around that small flask again, the one with the _miruvor._

"It will not last much longer, I am afraid," he said. "But I think we need it after that horror at the Gate."

For once, I was in complete agreement with him. As the cordial of Imladris hit my throat, spreading its wonderful warmth throughout my whole body, for a moment I felt as if I was back in Elrond's valley, resting in my lover's comfortable embrace. I remembered with astonishing clearness a memory of one particular time –when we had made love for the first time after our ugly fight… though calling it a fight might be misleading. I had hurt him badly, for when I was hurt myself, I lashed out at him; and he endured it with that uncanny Elven calmness that made me more angry than anything else.

I had wished him to fight back, to hurt me just as I had hurt him, for that would have made our parting easier. Yet he did not. He left my room, broken and hurting, but not as much as a bad word did he say to me. While he was off on errantry with his brother, I had enough time to understand the full measure of my folly and my loss.

Never did I truly believe that he would forgive me and things might become as they had been. And at first it seemed that they would not indeed, for he is a proud warrior, and I had wronged him greatly. Yet when I finally managed to overcome my stubborn pride and begged his forgiveness, his love won over the hurts I inflicted upon his heart, and he opened it for me again.

Looking back at that fateful night I had to believe that it was then that he made his Choice. Our love-making was desperate and yet so very gentle, I never knew that it could ever be this way with another man – or even with a woman, for that part. Afterwards, when I rested in his arms and he sang to me softly in the darkness to keep the nightmares away, as was his wont, I felt a warmth and a peace that I had not known since I left the safety of my mother's womb.

The warmth of _miruvor_ had brought back that very feeling for a moment, and touching the Stone briefly, I reached out for my beloved, mayhap to thank him, mayhap just for resting in his comforting presence once more.

But I could not reach him. No matter how hard I tried, there was no answer.

Something, mayhap being enclosed in this accursed Mountain, or some evil that dwelt under the deep caverns, blocked Elladan from me. The feeling of loss was excruciating. I had grown so accustomed to his presence in my mind that it almost felt as if part of my own self had been forcibly removed. Was this what Elves felt when their soul-bound mates were killed? I knew not.

All I knew was that the journey through the Black Pit would be long and dark indeed. Even more so than I had feared.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As most of their companions were busy eating and listening to Gandalf's instructions concerning the next part of their journey, Legolas was the only one to notice Boromir's stricken face. The Elf, as usual sat a little apart from the others, his keen eyes never losing their watchfulness, (not even the nearly complete darkness,) and watched the Heir of Gondor with quiet anxiety.

Ever since they had met in the woods near Imladris, he felt a strange kinship toward this tormented Man, and was increasingly concerned about him. He would have kept an eye on Boromir even if Elladan had not asked him to do so. For though he considered himself a loyal friend of Aragorn, if for naught else than for Lady Arwen's sake whom he loved like a sister, he could also feel the loss of the Steward's son. How ever this quest might end, Boromir's life – and that of his family – would change, for ever.

_If he lives to see it, Legolas thought, full of sorrow.  For, with the keen sense of his maternal ancestors, he could feel the evil weight of the Shadow growing heavier upon Boromir's heart, the longer he was this close to the Ring. The Elf hoped that the bond between the Man and Elladan would prove strong enough to save Boromir from falling under that evil spell, but that was by no means certain. Boromir had fallen under Shadow before, and thus he was in great peril, greater mayhap than most of the others, save Frodo himself._

Legolas rose gracefully and noiselessly, stepped over one of the hobbits (he bothered not to see which one it was,) and sat down next to Boromir, offering him his waterskin as an excuse for his intrusion.

"You look troubled," he said in a low voice, so that they would not be overheard by the others. "What ails you?"

"The Stone," Boromir was too shaken to keep it to himself; besides, Legolas had never been aught but supportive in this matter. "It… it works no more!"

"Oh, but it does!" Legolas replied with a certainty he not truly felt; but he could not allow Boromir to break down, not now. "There must be something to overshadow the magic of the Stone; either the sheer mass of rock above us, or some evil presence. And, of course, you are a mere Man – were you an Elf, you could farspeak to Elladan still, even though it would be more difficult. Though mayhap not," he added, shuddering from unpleasant memories. "If ancient evils, older than even Elves are at work here, their powers might keep you from reaching him anyway."

"You think I shall be able to speak to him, soul to soul, when we leave this cursed place?" Boromir asked, clearly relieved. The Elf nodded.

"That is my belief, aye. So, keep up your hopes and be prepared, for I am certain that the little folk will have need of your strong arm and sharp sword yet, ere we reach the Eastern Gate."

He paused, his bright eyes searching the Man's face intently. "This darkness will take its toll on all of us, I fear. Will you be all right?"

Boromir nodded. The Mines made him as uneasy as they made Legolas, but now that he saw a purpose before his eyes and a hope waiting for him on the other end, he felt he could go on again.

"I am a soldier," he said simply.  "And a good one, if I may say so myself. Duty comes first. Worry not, Master Elf. I can do this."

Legolas nodded, and without a further word he rose again to return to his former place. Gandalf, who was still talking to the others, noticed the waterskin in his hand, which gave him another thought.

"Go carefully with the water, too!" the wizard warned the hobbits. "There are many streams and wells in the Mines, but they should not be touched. We may not have a chance of filling our skins and bottles 'til we come down into Dimrill Dale."

Needless to say, this made the hobbits less than happy. Saving food and water was not something they were used to doing.

"How long is _that_ going to take us?" asked Frodo.

"I cannot say," answered Gandalf with a shrug. "It depends on many chances. But going straight, without mishap or losing our way, we shall take three or four marches, I expect. It cannot be less than forty miles from West-door to East-gate in a direct line, and the road may wind much."

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Yes, I do know that there is no such thing as a devil in Middle-earth (unless  we count in the Dark Lord), all right? I was just unable to resist the pretty alliteration.

(2) That can actually be done – nomadic Hungarian warriors are said to have done so all the time. In fact, no mounted warrior who lacked the strength to draw the bowstring behind his ear was accepted into the Chieftain's or one of the nobles' guard. An arrow, shot by a trained warrior went through mail shirts or sometimes even plate armour like through butter. At that time the frequent prayer in Western Europe was: "And save us from the arrows of the Hungarians, O Lord!"

(3) Called a "brigandine" among mere Men. g

(4) Actually, considering the fact that in the Third Age Galadriel and Glorfindel were the only ones who had ever seen Valinor, all LOTR-Elves could be considered as Dark Elves. But I assumed that this was how the Avari were still called by their more "civilized" cousins.


	5. Chapter 5: The Long Dark

**DESCENDING TO DARKNESS**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** see Introduction.

**Rating:** PG, for some disturbing images concerning battles.

**Author's notes:**

Sorry for being this long with an update. The truth is, I thought this chapter (and the next one) lost, due to my most recent computer crashdown. It was a pleasant surprise to find them, after all.

Not much action in here, I am afraid. Basically Boromir's musings about the possible fate of Gondor, and a few glimpses into his past.

**Dedication:** This particular chapter is for Ro and Aislynn, my fellow Dwarf-fanciers. Alas, it is not beta-ed.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE: THE LONG DARK**

After only a brief rest we started on our way again, eager to get this part of our journey over as quickly as possible. For that, even the Halflings were willing, tired as they were, to go on marching still for several hours. Though I should not be surprised – they had shown an amazing amount of strength and resilience, and kept up with us jus finely so far. Still, though I knew that they were grown adults for their small kin, I could not help feeling protective. And seeing the round, smooth face of the Ringbearer, 'twas hard to imagine that he was a good ten years older than I.

When I first saw him in Elrond's council, I thought he might be an Elven child – the dark, curly locks and the pointed little ears were deceiving, and there was a sprite-like air about him that reminded me of the fairy tales my mother told me when I was little. Peregrin told me about a rumour among Halflings that somewhen way back a Baggins would have married a fairy – a ridiculous thing, the young Took added a little haughtily, since Frodo's sense of adventure doubtlessly came from what little Took blood he had in his veins. And yet, when one looked at Frodo, one would almost believe it. Right now even more so than before.

I looked forwards where Mithrandir walked in front, holding up his glimmering staff in his left hand and clutching his drawn sword in his right. The dim light of his staff just showed the ground before his feet, but it was enough to show the extraordinary craftsmanship of that sword – Glamdring was its name, if I remembered correctly, and it was Elven work if I ever seen one, not unlike the great sword that Gildor Inglorion wore when I met him back in Imladris – and Gildor was an Elf-lord of royal birth. I wondered how that exquisite blade had come to the wizard, making a mental note to ask my little friends during the next rest.

Gimli the Dwarf followed Mithrandir closely, often turning his head from side to side as if glimpsing small things only a Dwarf would notice. His eyes glinted in the dim light like naked daggers every time he did so, and there was a deep longing in them – a longing to see the wonders of Moria that he had only known of old legends all his life. And though I hated the Black pit with a ferocity that surprised even me, I certainly could understand his yearning.

Would I not like to see Minas Tirith in her prime again, tall and fair and proud? Would I not like to see Osgiliath rebuilt, the great, domed Hall Isildur and Anárion raised anew, with the high seats of the Kings standing in the middle, where they had held council and spoken judgement in the days of old? And even though I knew this would never happen, I envied not from Gimli to see at least the remnants of the long-gone glory of his people.

The Ringbearer walked right behind the Dwarf. He, too, had drawn that beautifully-crafted short sword he called Sting. No gleam came from its blade, of from that of Mithrandir's sword; and that was some comfort, for I had been told that – being the work of Elvish smiths in the Elder Days – they both shone with a cold light when Orcs were near at hand. Not that Mithrandir or even my so-called King had told me these things, of course, for they never felt the necessity to tell me aught if they could avoid it. But listening to the cheerful chatter of the little folk I learnt more about the finding of the Ring than the leaders of our Fellowship might have suspected – though still not enough to fully satisfy my curiosity.

I watched Frodo walking between Gimli and his faithful Samwise, tiredly but determinedly, drawn sword in his hand, and I had to smile, for he looked exactly as my mother had described Mirko, youngest son of the King of Fairie, whose adventures and brace fight against the foul beasts of Tanagra(1) were my favourite childhood tales.

The true Elven prince, following them as noiselessly as a ghost, looked less of a creature out of fairy tales. In fact, Legolas seemed not all that different from his own escort that had come with him to Imladris, neither in his attire, nor in his demeanour – until provoked. It concerned me that he had drawn steel on Gimli twice already during our journey, for even though he could restrain himself from harming the Dwarf, it clearly showed the building tension in him. I wondered what he might do, should the weight of massive rock above our heads bear down on him in this enclosed space. Elves were not made to walk in deep tunnels – they were creatures of the woods and the starlight. If the darkness of Moria lay this heavily upon _my_ heart, what might _Legolas_ feel?

Between the Elf and me the two younger Halflings shuffled on tired little feet, yet determined not to fall back. The strength that lay hidden in their small but brave hearts amazed me to no end. Grown Men would have broken repeatedly under the weight of horrors we had already faced on this journey, and yet on they went, into even greater perils, for the love of their elder cousin. And though they were not children (a fact I had to remind myself again and again), I vowed to myself once again that I would protect them from everything that might come. NO harm should reach hem as long as I could wield my sword.

I glanced over my shoulder, back to the rear, where in the dark my future King walked, grim and silent. I could more feel him than see – his presence, his determination… his unease. If I truly was to die, as my dark dreams suggested, could I entrust him with the care of the young Halflings – or with that of my city, my people, my land? He who had roamed the North freely all his life, would he understand the burden that true leadership meant? Should the Council of Gondor accept his claim, despite Peneldur's Law, will he let himself be confined to Minas Tirith, dealing with the less-than-heroic matters of reign all day?

I have watched long enough to know what ruling Gondor truly meant. It is more than defending the borders from an enemy heroically. Being a hero is easy. Living through politics and petty fights between noble families, extracting trade contracts and uneasy alliances, playing even our allies against each other for the greater good of Gondor, like my father has done all his life – _that_ is the tough part of leadership.

I have been prepared for that part since I left my mother's care. I have sat in the Council from the age of twelve. Father wanted me to learn how it was done. I might not be the well-read lore-master my brother always tried to become, but I was raised to rule Gondor – and I could do it.

The question is – could _Aragorn_ do it?

I had no doubt that he could deal with Elves or the simple Men of the North. But in Minas Tirith, he would have to deal with the heads of the most influential families, honed in intrigue and manipulation since the time of the Kings, with the ambassadors of Rhûn and Harad – and with the Rohirrim, whom he already accused of paying tribute to the Enemy. I knew he was wrong, but I also knew that Théodred would not take such accusation kindly. I knew my dear, proud friend all too well. And should the faltering King succumb to his age, Théodred might soon become King of the Mark. Should Aragorn estrange him with his pointless accusations, Gondor could lose her most important ally.

* * *

I shook my head to chase these gloomy thoughts away – it was dark enough here, without darkening my mood any further. And on we went, following Mithrandir's staff, deeper and deeper into that dark. The passage we were following twisted round a few turns ere it began to descend. From there, it went steadily down before it became level once more, and my unease grew with every foot that brought us deeper into the guts of the Mountains.

The air grew hot and stifling (though, to my surprise, not foul), and I began to feel the weight of my weapons and armour, and a short time later I was soaked in sweat. My years as a mountaineer helped me little, for I was clad and equipped for a journey on horseback, not for the exploration of caves. The longer we went, the more I hated this place.

Fortunately, at times we could feel currents of cooler air upon our faces, though we knew not where they might come. I guessed that there had to be hidden openings in the walls, but we could see none, even though there were many of these currents. In the pale glow of Mithrandir's staff I also could catch glimpses of stairs and arches, and of other passages and tunnels, sloping up, or running steeply down, or opening blankly dark on either side. 'Twas bewildering beyond hope of remembering, and my feeling of unease grew even more, for we were utterly vulnerable to an attack from every side. This place was the perfect rat-trap if I ever saw one.

At first I had put my hope into the Dwarf, thinking that he might know the great underground realm of his forefathers well enough from ancient legends. After all, we still could find our ways among the ruins of Osgiliath and point out and name her famous roads, even though the once proud capital of Gondor was destroyed beyond recognition. But it seemed that Gimli could aid Mithrandir very little, except of his stout courage. Often the wizard would consult him at points where the choice of was doubtful; but it was always Mithrandir who had the final word.

This surprised me more than a little, as the son of Glóin was a Dwarf of the mountain-race – yet the Mines of Moria were vast and apparently beyond even _his_ imagination. I could not help but remember the ancient _saga_s of the Rohirrim, sung often by campfire or in the Golden Hall of Meduseld – particularly that of Fram the Dragon Slayer(2) and his legendary journey to Govedar, the once-great Dwarven kingdom of the Ered Mithrin that had been destroyed by Scatha the Worm early in our Age(3).

Those _saga_s told of a subterranean river that glowed in the dark with a subtle golden shine of its own and the water of which was warm and spicy; and of terraced gardens under the Earth, caressed by thin rays of sunlight led to them through narrow air-shafts cut high in the living rock of the mountainside and watered by that wondrous river.

And of mushrooms and berries and even some sort of corn that grew in those gardens, and of strange, translucent fish that lived in the river, their skin thin enough so that one could see their inner organs through it. And of animals, kept in the folds under the Earth: sturdy ponies that pulled the wagons in the mines, and goats and sheep that lived in the sunlit upper caves in the winter and grazed on the meadows of the mountainside during summer.

I wondered if Moria had been aught like that in the days of its glory. For now it seemed little more than confusing labyrinth of dark, abandoned tunnels where evil things could waylay us in every turn. I doubted that there would be any Dwarves left. And I wished I were on my way to the Gap of Rohan safely, where I would reach Minas Tirith in time, ere she gets besieged.

For besieged she would be, of that I was certain. Even without the Ring, the Enemy was strong enough to take us into that black hand of his and to crash us like flies. And with Curunír falling into the backs of the Rohirrim, our vaning strength would be divided and we would have a war on two fronts at the same time.

Mirkwood, the only other realm that actually _was_ fighting the Enemy instead of whining and running to the West in the vain hope that the Valar would finally _do_ something against the One that used to belong to them, was under attack from all sides, and the Wood-Elves fought with their backs against the wall. I very much doubted that anyone but I could truly appreciate the difficulty of Mirkwood's situation. Just as we had Minas Morgul right before our doorstep, they had Dol Guldur, with another of the fell Wraiths sitting in its dark tower. And just as Gondor had little help from the outside, the other Elves cared not to aid Legolas' people.

Elladan and Elrohir were the only ones to hunt for Orcs with the Mirkwood Elves at times, but that was their personal vengeance quest, and largely frowned upon by their own father. By all the affection I felt for my lover, I was fairly certain that – if not for the terrible fate of his mother – he and his brother, too, would be content to guard Imladris instead of going abroad to fight the servants of the Enemy.

But once the vast armies of the Enemy – and those of his chief servants and allies – have come into motion, all those who had sat in lazy confidence within the safe walls of their valleys or within the protective girdle of some Elven magic, will learn the brutal reality of war. A lesson that _my_ people – or the Silvan folk of Mirkwood, for that matter – had to learn a long time ago.

I wish them not the small horrors of a land under constant warfare – I wish them even less the much worse horror of having a war in their own land. But I fear that they will not be spared either, and all those years they did naught will not prove… helpful.

I shook my head, for those thoughts helped me not to keep my wits together – like most of the others, I was greatly troubled by the darkness of the Mines, and I envied Gimli for the ease with which he endured this place. He left not the side of the wizard, and though it seemed as if the far-off memories of a journey long before were now of little help to Mithrandir, miraculously, even in the gloom and despite all winding of the road, the wizard knew whither he wished to go, and he did not falter, as long as there was a path that led towards his goal.

"Do not be afraid," said Aragorn somewhere behind my back, and he lengthened his stride to catch up with the Halflings, who were crowded in an almost indistinguishable heap between Legolas and me, muttering anxiously. We had stopped a few moments ago, I realized, so deep in my own, worried thoughts that I nearly overrun the little ones. The break seemed longer than usual, yet still Mithrandir and the Dwarf were whispering together, obviously not able to come to an agreement.

"Do not be afraid," my King-to-be repeated, and I rolled my eyes in the safe disguise of the nearly complete darkness, for I certainly _was_ afraid that we might never find a way out of this cursed maze, and I could only guess how afraid the Halflings might have been. For all the bravery of their small hearts, this was no place for a Halfling – or a Man.

"I have been with Gandalf on many a journey," Aragorn continued, "if never on one so dark; and there are tales in Rivendell of greater deeds of his than any that _I have_ seen."

"That is nice," replied Meriadoc with a false brightness that _almost_ convinced us all; of the little ones he could face his own fears the best; "and I would _love_ to listen to those, told by a nice campfire, while food and beer are reached around aplenty. What I would prefer to see soon, though, is the end of these Mines. But it seems to me that Gandalf has gone astray, and Gimli has no idea where we might be, either."

"Gandalf will _not_ go astray," said Aragorn with certainty, "if there is any path to find. He has led us in here, against our fears, but he will lead us out again, at whatever cost to himself. He is surer of finding the way home in a blind night than the cats of Queen Berúthiel."

"Who was this Queen Berúthiel?" Peregrin's eyes brightened in anticipation of an exciting story. "And what about her cats?"

To my honest surprise, Aragorn hesitated.

"I… I cannot tell. I never heard the true tale behind that saying," he admitted, a little ashamed. "I picked it up in Gondor, a long time ago, but never asked for any details."

Peregrin, as it was his wont, did not lose a beat.

"That is all right, Strider," he said cheerfully. "Surely Boromir can tell us the whole tale, him being from Gondor and all that."

"Indeed, Master Peregrin, I can," I replied, for it gave me some less-than-generous satisfaction to show my greater knowledge of Gondor, even if it was naught but some obscure folk tale.

"Tell me then!" demanded Peregrin, and all the hobbits sat down expectantly, as Mithrandir and the Dwarf were still arguing anyway.

Aragorn and I followed suit, for we, too, felt weary, and it was good to rest a little. Only the Elf remained standing motionlessly in the darkness.

"Well then," I began, remembering how I once told this very same tale my brother when he was litter; "the Queen Berúthiel was the wife of Tarannon, twelfth King of Gondor. Now, Tarannon was the first of the Ship-kings, called so for their great victories on Sea, and he took the crown in the name of Falastur, 'Lord of the Coasts', and during his reign has Gondor reached the peak of its glory. But also he was the first childless King, for there was no love between him and his nefarious, solitary wife, who is said to have been a Princess of the Black Númenóreans of Umbar."

I paused, seeing if I had confused my little friends with too many names and details that would say them naught. But I underestimated their curiosity once again, it seemed, for they were still looking at me with great interest.

"What was she like?" asked Meriadoc, as if trying to nudge me forward.

"Well, se was… strange, to say the least," I answered, "Berúthiel lived in the King's House in Osgiliath, hating the sounds and smells of the house that Tarannon built below Pelargir upon arches whose feet stood deep in the wide waters of Ethir Anduin…"

"I cannot blame her," Samwise shuddered. "I would not wish to live upon the waters, either,"

"Yea; but she also hated all making, all colours and elaborate adornment," I replied, "wearing only black and silver and living in bare chambers. And the gardens of her house in Osgiliath were filled with tormented sculptures beneath cypresses and yews."

"Was she evil?" asked Frodo quietly, and I shrugged.

"People in Gondor thought so. And they blamed her for the breaking of Anárion's line – which might be the very reason why her name was erased from the Book of the Kings."

"But you still know it and remember her," said Frodo.

"I do," I agreed, "for the memory of Men is not wholly shut in books, and thus the cats of Queen Berúthiel never passed wholly out of Men's speech, either."

"Yea, _what_ about the cats?" asked Peregrin impatiently. "You have not told the part about the cats yet!"

"Aye, the cats, right," I said, smiling, for he was like a child demanding his bedtime story indeed. "Now, it is told that she had none black cats and one white, her slaves, with whom she conversed, or read their memories, setting them to discover all the deep secrets of Gondor, so that she knew those things that men wish most to keep hidden, setting the white cat to spy upon the black ones, and tormenting them."

"But how could mere beasts do anything like that?" Samwise was clearly frightening by the mere thought of it. "Was she a sorceress or a witch of some sort?"

"Most people believed that she was," I answered. "No man in Gondor dared to touch those cats. All were afraid of them, and cursed when they saw them pass – or so the tales tell."

"And what has finally become of the Queen?" asked Peregrin.

"'Tis said that King Tarannon had her set alone onto a ship with her cats and set adrift n the Sea before a north wind," I answered slowly. "The ship was last seen flying past Umbar under a sickle moon, with a cat at the masthead and another as a figure-head on the prow(4)."

I ended my tale, and there was a long silence, the hobbits thinking about what they had heard. Even in the barely illuminated darkness I could see that they did not like the ending at all.

"That was cruel," Frodo finally said, and the others nodded in agreement.

"Even if she _was_ evil, sending her to certain death, and upon the Sea that she hated most, was wrong," added Meriadoc. "And can it not be that she was not evil at all, just lonely and desperate, having to live in a land where people feared and hated her?"

I sighed. "I know not, little one. I cannot even tell whether these tales are true or not. Still, they have been told in Gondor for a very long time, so there has to be _some_ truth behind them, at the very least."

Frodo shook his head. "'Twas a cruel thing from your King nevertheless."

I was amiss of a good answer. What could the little folk know of the Black Númenóreans who had been serving the Enemy for two Ages by now? Of their dark alliances with the peoples of Rhûn and Harad, aye, even with the huge, far-away realm of Khand; the threat they represented for our borders and coasts?

Wedding Berúthiel to Tarannon was a feeble attempt to reunite the two estranged kindreds of Westernesse and provide our land greater safety – just as my father intended when he voiced his wish that I wed Éowyn of Rohan. Certainly, Rohan could not be compared with the vast power that the Third Realm in the exile had in Tarannon's times, but Gondor, too, had fallen deeply from its one-time glory, and was the Riddermark not our strongest ally yet?

This gave me a sobering thought. Would our people, even if I returned safe and sound, ever accept Éowyn? Or would they only see the wild shieldmaiden of the North in her, despite the blood of Lossarnach that flows in her veins?

Even though I shall never be what my father has been for Gondor for so long, not if the Council accepts the claim of Isildur's Heir (and in these desperate times there is a chance that they will), the Steward's family has always been the noblest and most respectably, heavily loaded with tradition, our lives guided by strict rules – would she ever be able to live among us?

Well, should my dreams prove true, I needed not to worry about her. She would never be trapped in the golden cage of a loveless marriage, never be looked down at by haughty Gondorian nobles, never be forced to endure the strictness of the Steward's House and Father's icy glare – even though I think she could stand up even to Father if she wanted.

Fortunately, Mithrandir and the Dwarf finally had come to an agreement, and the wizard urged us forward again, making in unnecessary for me to answer. But as we fell back to our former line again, Legolas turned back to me for e moment, leaving the hobbits pass, and said quietly:

"Men fear that which they know not, do they, Son of Denethor?"

"We are wary of strangers, aye," I answered.

"And what will happen when Aragorn returns with you to Minas Tirith?" he asked. "Will he be considered the long-lost King in his right – or an usurper who tries to take over what is not his to take?"

To that I had no answer, and he nodded as if he had not accepted to get one either, taking up his original place between the two pairs of hobbits once more.

* * *

On we went, following the pale glow of Mithrandir's staff once again, and grateful we were for such a guide, for we had no fuel or any means of making torches. In the desperate fight-and-flight at the Doors many things had been left behind. We felt their lack keenly, most of all the lack of our blankets that were lost, for it was cold in the Mines, colder than any of us would except, save those who had been here earlier.

Still, the cold was the lesser evil; if we moved quickly enough, we could warm up ourselves. But without any light we would soon have come to grief. Even in this deep shadow we could see many roads to choose from, on both sides, and I had begun to vaguely guess just _how_ vast the Dwarrowdelf (as Gimli called it) must have been.

There also were holes and pitfalls in many places – the remnants of old battles mayhap, or caused by the changing of the rock itself, which happens all the time, slowly but inevitably. I saw many such traps in the White Mountains in my youth. Our passing feet often echoed in dark wells beside the path, and I wondered what on the bottom of those might lie hidden, hoping that I would never find out. How could the Dwarves live in these treacherous caverns?

Of course, they would know their own realm much better than chance visitors like we did. Mayhap those fissures and chasms in the wall and floor had not been there in the Days of Durin, and surely the cracks that every now and then opened right before our feet would have been repaired long ago. The abandoned wasteland that we found made me doubt that any of Gimli's people would still be here.

Mithrandir came to a halt all of a sudden, and peeking over the hobbits' head I could see why: we came to another crack across our path, and this one was more than seven feet wide in my estimate. Too wide for a hobbit to leap over, and not an easy task even for a grown Man.

"Rope!" Samwise muttered, eyeing the crack with understandable disgust. "I knew I would want it, if I had not got it!"

"'Tis a long leap, but not impossible to make," Legolas encouraged him, jumping over the crack with the easy grace of a sleek cat. From the other side, he looked back to the hobbits, smiling, but I saw the concern in his eyes.

"Come, follow me, my friends!" he urged the rest of us. "You can do it! Go back a few steps, then run and jump!"

Mithrandir followed first, his heavy robe flattering behind him like some strange sail; then Gimli, showing a limberness that I would never expect from his stout form. But the hobbits seemed frightened, and I knew not how to help them – I would be lucky to balance my own weight after such a leap, I could not risk carrying any of them, or we would all fall to our deaths.

As usual, Frodo was the first to take the risk. He closed his eyes for a moment, backed a few steps, then, as Legolas had advised, ran and leapt. He landed safely on the other side, not even swaying – having such big feet (compared with the rest of hobbit bodies) seemed an advantage when it came to balance.

Samwise followed him blindly, as usual, but he was less skilled and almost fell backwards. Fortunately, Legolas was quick as lightning and grabbing his arm yanked him away from the crack with that hidden Elven strength that always surprised me when surfacing.

That left the two younger hobbits with us two Men, and they were clearly nervous. A lot more nervous than Frodo had been.

Aragorn nudged me forward.

"Go first," he said quietly. "They trust you. When they see you on the other side, waiting to catch them, they might go easier."

Well, that certainly sounded flattering, but to tell the truth, I was not that convinced about my own chances in the first place. But I had not other choice, either.

"Legolas," I called the Elf, taking the big shield from my back, for it doubtlessly would have unbalanced me. "Catch!"

He nodded, understanding my intention at once, and I threw the shield with care. It flew straight into his hands, and he stepped back to make room for me.

I swallowed hard. It had been nearly twenty summers since I had mastered the mountains… I could only hope that my feet were still sure enough. Well, there was only one way to find out, and I could not afford to show fear before the already frightened young hobbits.

Just as Frodo had done before, I retreated a few steps, then ran and jumped. The dreadful gap seemed to have no end – I felt like a broken-winged seagull over the stormy Sea, and the noise of churning water that came up from far below only strengthened that eerie feeling. Would the weight of my weapons and my mail shirt – or that of my age – bring me down ere I could reach the other side?

I was not aware that sometime amidst my leap I had shut my eyes tightly. Fear began to overwhelm me once again, fear and helpless fury that I would end in this fetid hole while my city was in dire need of my strong arm, of my leadership. For a short moment I felt panic rising in me. Then my feet made contact with the hard rock, and someone grabbed my forearms with a strength greater than any Man's.

I opened my eyes and looked ashamedly in the bright ones of Legolas, yet in those were naught but understanding. The Elf nodded once and gave me back my shield without a word, and I felt absurdly grateful for having the support of such a fine warrior.

"Well, little ones," I said, turning back to Meriadoc and Peregrin, "'tis your turn now."

The young Brandybuck looked less than eager, but got over easily enough, mimicking Frodo's movements most precisely. Peregrin, however, kept looking down into the crack and was 'a little pale around the eyes', as Aragorn later put it. The noises of the water deep down seemed to worry him very much.

"This sounds as if some great millwheel were turning drown there," he muttered unhappily.

"Oh, come on, Pippin, you can do this!" encouraged him Meriadoc. "Boromir could do it, and he is big and heavy – you are small and light, you will fly over that crack like a bird!"

"And I promise to catch you," I added, ignoring the 'big and heavy' part for the moment, though I intended to pick a bone with Master Brandybuck about that later. Peregrin looked at me with big, round – and very frightened eyes.

"You will? Catch me, I mean?"

"Why, certainly," I said with a confidence I did not truly feel, for the gap seemed awfully wide for such a small person. I went down to one knee and stretched out my arms to him. "Come!"

Finally he summoned all the courage he had – and that was a lot indeed – shut his eyes tightly and jumped with all his strength, landing in my arms and knocking me off balance, so that Legolas had to grab us both, or else we might have fallen to our deaths, after all. Fortunately, Peregrin only opened his eyes when I put him down, so he had no idea how close we both came to falling. But the others paled so much that it could be clearly seen, even in the almost complete darkness.

Last of us all, Aragorn crossed the crack with one long leap, nearly as easily as Legolas – if that was because he was used to move like Elves or because he had the longest legs I have ever seen on a Man, I knew not; and I cared even less. We had overcome this particular obstacle and would go on, and that was the only thing that counted.

* * *

After a moment's rest we indeed continued our march through the long dark of Moria, yet it became slower as these dangers became more frequent.

"It seems to me that we have been trampling on and on for Ages to the roots of these cursed Mountains," I muttered, more to myself than to Legolas, when he joined me on one of our rare rests once again.

The Elf looked at me in concern, eyes impossibly large and bright in his pale face.

"I, too, feel as if I would be enclosed in a tomb," he admitted, "but you must not speak thusly within the earshot of the little folk. They are brave, but more than weary already, and seem not to find comfort even in the thought of halting anymore."

"I cannot blame them," I murmured. "Mayhap we should give them more food to raise their spirits."

"I wish we could," Legolas sighed, "But we have nearly run out of resources as it is. The sooner we leave the Mines behind the better."

With that I completely agreed. So we sat in silence 'til Mithrandir gave us the sign to move on. As it was his wont, Legolas walked between the two pairs of hobbits, his head proudly raised like that of a listening deer. I knew that his senses were sharper than the others', even Aragorn's, and seeing a deep uneasiness, growing to dread, creeping over his face made me concerned.

"Do you hear anything?" I asked, but he shook his head.

"Nay; but I _do_ have the same dread feeling that I had felt when I entered Moria the last time – only that now it is closer. Much closer."

He spoke in the Elven tongue, in that old-fashioned manner that was still spoken in the noble Houses of Gondor, so I had no difficulty understanding him. The young hobbits looked at him curiously – and at me in surprise when I answered in the same tongue. Why people would think I had been taught nothing but swordfight in my youth, I cannot understand.

"Where does it come from?" I asked, feeling a little awkward about my much too harsh accent. Yet it seemed not to bother Legolas.

"We are walking straight towards it," he answered grimly. "But it cannot be helped – we must through. Whatever it is, I hope we can sneak by it unnoticed. Otherwise our journey in the dark will be a short one."

He fell into silence and I asked him no more, for I, too, felt the presence of something evil – other than the Ring, that is. Of course, I could feel the Ring, too, stronger than ever before, whispering in the dark corners of my mind, with words that I could not understand – yet. But the whispers grew louder as we went on, so that I could barely hear the light step of Legolas before me or the soft pattern of hobbit-feet. Just the dull stump of Gimli's boots, my own heavy tread, caused by a sore ankle, and behind me the slow, firm footfalls of Aragorn with his long stride.

I looked at the Ringbearer, who seemed to bend forwards under the weight of his burden, his left hand lying upon his breast where, hidden under his clothes, that wheel of fire hung upon its chain. I could see that he, too, felt the certainty of evil ahead and of evil following – for was he not the bearer of the very thing that called out to all evil in this dark place? I knew he was afraid; but he said naught. He gripped tighter on the hilt of his short sword and went on, doggedly.

I, too, gripped my sword-hilt, ready to face any enemy that might burst out of the darkness. My other hand sneaked to the Stone – it was useless, I knew, and yet I could not resist the need to seek some connection with my beloved. But the Stone remained cold, and I felt more alone than ever before in my whole lonely life.

One only understands what one has had when one loses it.

TBC

* * *

**End notes:**

(1) No, I have no idea what sort of creatures the beasts of Tanagra are. Prince Mirko is a character from a children's tale in South-Europe.

(2) Fear not, that is another tale you will be told yet – though I cannot say when exactly.

(3) No actual date for this event. Frumgar, the father of Fram led this people (the Éothéod) to live by the sources of Anduin in 1977, Third Age. Therefore, the fall of Govedar (which is a non-canon place) must have happened around 2000, since Fram visited it as a grown Man.

(4) The tale of Queen Berúthiel was taken (with slight modifications) from the "Unfinished Tales", p. 419. Anyone interested in more should read Kielle's story "Skadi in Shadow", available on


End file.
